


Ruthless

by Dean_Wax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Aphrodisiacs, Arranged Marriage, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Brothels, Comedy, Death, Gay, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hate to Love, Hypnotism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Politics, Rough Body Play, Royalty, Secrets, Uniforms, Vampires, War, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 57,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dean_Wax/pseuds/Dean_Wax
Summary: “Get out.” The words were all Alistair could muster, taking his hand away from his face and balling it into a fist.Hredon clicked his tongue, rising from the table. Before he took his leave, however, he circled round the table, leaning forward over the hunched King. For whatever reason, the man blanched in his seat, leaning away from him. Hredon decided that he liked that very much. Reaching out, he took his betrothed’s face in one hand, so he could better understand the gravity of his words.“Give me what I want, Alistair,” he cooed. “It will be so much easier if you do. And don’t summon me to another meal unless pig is on the menu.”***WHEN AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE MEETS AN IMMOVABLE OBJECT: Over-educated brat Prince Hredon has just been pawned off in marriage to a ruthless warlord whose kingdom's influence has spread across most of the continent. He could be intimidated, if he lacked a spine. As far as he's concerned, he isn't stuck with King Alistair: King Alistair is stuck with HIM. And woe  betide him if he is anything less than forthcoming with bacon sandwiches.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 123
Kudos: 122





	1. The Land without Bacon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  NAME: Hredon Philaemon Archaeus  
> SPECIES: Human (Magic user - fire)  
> AGE: 22  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 5"11"; willowy build, lean musculature.  
> FACE: One brown and one blue eye which he generally keeps hidden; natural eyebrows; prominent, straight nose; cupid's bow lips; angled jawline. Pale complexion; clean-shaven.  
> HAIR: Glossy brown-black hair with a long side fringe to better obscure his eye. Cut shorter at the nape of the neck so it doesn't grow past his collar.  
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos. Various wear and tear scars from boyish exploits, particularly climbing the castle walls and Archaeon's rocky shores. Two onyx studs piercing the helix of one ear.  
> OCCUPATION: Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Archaeon
> 
> //
> 
> NAME: Alistair Iain Daeraed  
> SPECIES: Human (Vampire)  
> AGE: 35 (appears about 5 years younger, what with the immortality)  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 6"0"; muscular build.  
> FACE: Scarlet eyes kept brown through the daily use of magical eye drops; thick, manicured eyebrows; crooked nose (previously broken), square jawline. Very pale complexion; clean-shaven.  
> HAIR: Long, mahogany-brown hair that’s typically loose in his bedchambers, gently pulled back throughout the day, or tightly braided on the battlefield.  
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos or piercings. Numerous battle scars, including evidence of flogging on his back (all wounds pre-turning). Most obvious to all is a vertical slice scar to the meat of his right cheek, clipping the eye socket.  
> OCCUPATION: King of Daeraedmore (commonly mispronounced Dreadmore)

On his final morning in Archaeon, before he left to be married off to a foreign King, Hredon had eaten so many bacon sandwiches that he'd been sick. Truly. He was already used to eating a big breakfast to see him through the rest of the day, but even after he'd had his fill, he hadn't stopped, as if it would delay his journey somehow, as if he might never enjoy Itallyon's finest pig meats ever again. He'd just kept eating until his body rejected it so violently that he barely made it to the window in time, vomiting down the side of the castle. A servant had to bring up pails of water to wash it down the stony walls, lest it cake on, or attract seagulls. Then, after he had rinsed out his mouth, Hredon had dabbed at his lips with a napkin, returned to his seat, and eaten more bacon sandwiches. A normal amount, this time. Mercifully, his father had not corrected him on this day. Nobody had said anything. A grim sense of resignation had hung in the kingdom's air ever since the agreement had been made. 

And here he was, Hredon Philaemon Archaeus, fattened by fine imports (ha! hardly) on his merry way to the mountains like so much cargo. The initial stretch of the journey hadn't been so bad: it was on a ship, and there was always something to do on a ship, provided it was well-captrained. Archaeon had a fine fleet of ships that had taken him round to Portsmouth, where the mainland ran thinnest between Daeraedmore and the coast. From there, it was a straight shot all the way to the Capital, or at least, it purported to be the nation's Capital. Hredon could name a half dozen or so kingdoms who might have disagreed with that claim over the years, and now several of them were quite firmly under the Daeraedmorian warlord's boot.

The worst part about all of it, although his feelings on the matter seemed to change from day to day, for he was flighty in that way, was that the place was so horribly inland. No rocks, no reef, no bays for swimming; he consoled himself that he might learn to climb cliffs and trees instead of the castle walls. It could be an enjoyable pastime. 

_ You're such a child _ , Finnian tittered.    
  


Yes, well, not all of us were forced to grow up quite so quickly. 

_ Bold to state that you were forced to grow up at all. _

It was a sad little mental conversation he’d been having for a while now, to pass the time. Attempting to read in a carriage made him nauseous, so a pretend Finnian would have to do.

Finnian had a fox-like face and long, wavy locks of auburn hair. They’d been friends ever since they were little boys, but Hredon hadn't seen him in years. From his letters, Finnian described himself as getting a bit fat, thanks to all the coins that the soldiers had to spend. The local game was no bacon, but it was good eating - venison and pheasant and things like that - and though most of it went to his thighs, the men seemed to like it. One would have thought that of the two of them, it would be Hredon who would turn out to be such a porker, but evidently that wasn't what fate had planned. Too much climbing. In fact, it would be easier to list the days he  _ didn’t  _ sneak out of his bedroom window in the dead of night. 

Even now, slumped over in the back of lavish-but-truthfully-desolate carriage, his long torso formed a bending hollow. He could feel the weight of his mother's crucifix pushing out a tent in his shirt, right over his sternum. It had been suggested that the piece be melted down to make a wedding ring, even splitting the obsidian gem at its centre to make two stones, to which Hredon had all but screeched bloody murder. His new dearly betrothed could provide the sodding wedding rings if he was so inclined: it was the least he could do after strong-arming himself into Archaeon's royal lineage with his proposal. 

And imagine settling for a  _ husband  _ when one was so ambitious, anyway: surely it made far more sense to bag a wife and start having dozens and dozens of children to protect one's legacy. Hredon didn't like one bit of it. 

***

"Hail, Hredon Philaemon Archaeus, last of his name, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Archaeon, Enlightened Scholar of the Arts..."

The great hall crier here was so mundane. A complete let-down, given the opulence of this throne room, with its huge, floor-to-ceiling wrought-iron windows and arguably even huger black gossamer curtains. The sheer number of candelabras in the chamber brought with them a certain heat that Hredon might have been grateful for in the winter, but not now. Some natural light would have been far more sensible. It was probably to show off in some way, as if wasting candles somehow indicated one’s great fortune. 

“Ambassador of Purveyance… Officer of the Coin…”

Yet it was all for nought with this utterly  _ straightforward  _ crier.

The one back home took much better liberties with poetic flair. Standing rather stiffly in his full royal regalia (black, black, black; and wasn't it fitting, for he might as well have been mourning) Hredon wrinkled his nose and shot him a snide look as he read out all his titles. Only for a moment, of course. As with any great hall, the throne always did attract the most attention. And the man that sat upon it was rather rough around the edges, what with all the scars, but not  _ hideous _ ... not that this lessened any of the indignities he had imposed on Hredon, of course. No; all things considered, Hredon was sure that the man was very pleased with himself indeed. 

"... and proficient seafarer," the crier finished up Hredon’s lengthy accolades, rolling up his scroll. 

“You come highly recommended, I see,” the King greeted him dryly, having sat patiently in his gilded throne for the whole lot. King Alistair, if Hredon wasn’t mistaken. His throne looked silver, but he had it on very good authority that it  _ wasn’t  _ silver: it was white gold, and that was meant to be more expensive.

Smug prick. 

Hredon bowed.  _ Be civil _ , his father had said. "Your Majesty," he spoke loudly, well aware of the dozens and dozens of eyes upon him in the court. "It has been a long journey, so I'll not make it longer with great speeches. I look forward to discussing the terms of our union, if you'd have me." 

“Yes,” his Majesty announced, to the surprise of absolutely no-one. Of course he'd fucking have him, wouldn't he? Him, and the Archaeon throne, too. That was the reason for all of this: their naval forces were nothing to sniff at. In fact, the warships must have been fragrant indeed if the King was willing to enter a Fool’s Marriage to secure them, forsaking natural progeny. Hredon supposed he’d have a bastard son or two to look forward to in the future, too. Children were easy to acquire almost anywhere, after all: warships and skilled officers, not so much. 

Bastard.

“I am, of course, committed to your comfort as you prepare for our union,” the man said cordially, still leaning on one arm of his throne. “

He had no idea how true that was. One way or another.

“As such, I have arranged a small number of servants to attend to you in your rooms. I expect they will serve you well.” 

Gesturing to Hredon’s left, the King gave the expression of a man who was only familiar with the concept of a smile in the written sense, and simultaneously unwilling to commit to an attempt. The uncomfortable affair, mercifully, lasted for only a moment as no less than five primly suited attendants marched out into the clearing of the tiled hall for Hredon’s inspection.

_ Five?! _ Good god! Hredon was suddenly grateful for all of those tedious public speaking and composure lessons that his father had put him through (along with the elocution lessons, and the riding lessons, and the sailing lessons, and foreign policy… trade, poetry, accounting, history, navigation and of course, classical dance. His fanciful titles did not come lightly). A grizzled soldier he was not, but the end result of his many princely lessons was that his reaction was no more than a reserved turn of his head towards this small fleet of servants, when on the inside he was aghast. 

_ Five. _ How ridiculous. He knew the Archaeon Royal Family was fairly self-sufficient when compared to your average noble, but this grand gesture was so extravagant that Hredon couldn’t help but suspect the soon-to-be-King of flaunting his wealth.  _ Hail Daeraedmore! _ , it said.  _ We have so many armies, even our servants come in platoons. _

Not that Archaeon was poor; quite the opposite. But they were also economical. The household fared splendidly with a full staff of cooks, maids, guards, butlers and attendants… for the household, of course. Personal assistants were something else entirely. Back home, Hredon had barely more than a tailor he consulted every so often, and a bootler. And the level of intimacy between a man and his bootler was such that the thought of four more near-strangers touching his feet was downright uncomfortable.

He looked over the five blank faces and wondered if any of them even knew how to bootle. Not likely. He turned back to King Alistair with a restrained smile of his own; barely a flicker. “Thank you, your Majesty,” he said stiffly. Another bow. “I’ll take my leave, then. To prepare.” 

And he did. The conversation had scarcely taken longer than his introductions, but so be it. A quick court was a good court. He loathed conducting his business in front of the eyes of a snooping strangers. Seeking to thin out his new fleet of servants, he tagged off each of them with tasks once they were out in the corridor. 

“Unpacking, dusting, fetch wine, bootling – stay with me – and  _ you _ .” He grabbed the shoulder of the last one and leaned closer with a conspirational tone. “Head down the kitchens and see if you can find anything made of  _ pig _ . I’m not hungry yet, but report back.”

The man, who could only now be described as a befuddled brunet, nodded and walked off as though he were slightly off-kilter. Hredon was well aware of his reputation for intimidating the help, but they would simply have to adjust. He’d need to put a great deal of energy into putting down some roots in this godforsaken place. He was determined to be comfortable, and King Alistair had no idea what he was about to be dealing with.


	2. Darling

“M’lord, if I might—“ the servant began.

“No,” Hredon cut across him stoutly. 

Sitting on the bench at the end of his bed in his lavish guest room (now freshly dusted) he looked down at the nervous blond who was fumbling with his sock garter. “If it is not a casual dinner, I am  _ making _ it a casual dinner. Silk shirt, drape slacks,  _ no _ jacket.” He watched for a moment more as the young man failed to close the garter clasp for the sixth time before he lost his patience, using his foot to push his shoulder so hard that he fell back on his rump.

“You are a  _ terrible  _ bootler,” he snapped, waving him away. “Lay out my clothes. I’ll do it myself.” He bent over with a huff to see to his own garters, pinning the black cotton in place with ease. If only he  _ did _ have a personal attendant back in Archaeon, he might have brought them with him instead of having to suffer his fiance’s charity cases.

Standing, he circled round to the bed and started to dress. The deep V in the silk shirt exposed both his collar bone and glimpses of his mother’s crucifix, which he wore around his neck on a chain. “What can you tell me about the King?” he asked.

“I… I couldn’t say, M’lord,” the blond stammered. “I’ve never even set foot in his chambers. Before this, I tended lanterns in the great hall.”

“Terrible,” Hredon scolded him, buttoning his fly. Though they fit snugly at the waist, his trousers had a loose fit that suggested comfort, as opposed to the tightness that so often featured in formal wear. He had suits upon suits that he could trot out for the wedding ceremony but for an introductory dinner, Alistair could sod off. “Find out what you can and report back. Personal details, mind you. I don’t care to hear about his war exploits; that’s easy to find out.”

“Y-yes, M’lord.” The man left the room, looking as off-kilter as the one he’d sent down to the kitchens earlier. They’d all be wrecks by the end of the week. 

He rounded on a third servant who’d been standing by the door. “Take me to the King’s dining chamber.”

***

Hredon strolled into one of King Alistair’s private chambers (another gothic affair lit by far too many candles) in his full casual flair, and found the man already sitting at a small dining table laid with a dark red table cloth. The King was dressed much more formally than Hredon of course - that was probably what the servant was trying to tell him - but Hredon didn’t care in the slightest. If it was the King’s prerogative to suffer in an embroidered dressed shirt that buttoned all the way up the jaw, complete with cravat, that was his problem.

“Beloved fiancé,” he addressed the man much more informally – irreverently, even – now that they were in private. “Congratulations on securing the Archaeon navy. Now,” he said, joining the table and leaning forward with his chin resting on the back of his hands. “Let’s discuss how you can make my accommodations here more  _ comfortable _ .” 

King Alistair’s expression, which was already brooding, soured further. “I can’t imagine you’re anything close to ‘uncomfortable’ with five attendants, in one of our finest guest chambers.”

“Imagine it,” Hredon cooed gamely, taking his seat and snapping his fingers for wine to be poured. “Your kingdom has no established trade with Itallyon,” he informed the man bluntly. “There’s no bacon to had in this entire castle. If I’m to live here, that needs to change.”

Now, King Alistair simply looked as though the Prince had grown a second head. His gaze lingered briefly on the jewellery at Hredon’s breastbone before he met his eyes again. “Is that why you had a servant asking for pig in the kitchens? For bacon?”

Treachery. “So glad to know that my servants are also spies,” Hredon sneered. 

“Are you familiar with the logistics of hog export?” The King frowned.

“Intimately.” 

“And you understand that Daeraedmore is landlocked?”

“It’s true that you’ll never achieve large scale trade. But one pig on one wagon would surely last one man a few months, and that man is me.” Hredon sipped at his wine. The cupbearer filled the King’s goblet, too, but he left it untouched.

“You want me to import Itallyon livestock for you and you only?” the KIng asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Hredon said matter-of-factly.

The King groaned, massaging his temples. “They warned me you were outspoken.”

“And who’s ‘they’? Pray tell.” Hredon already knew the answer. Treachery and treachery again.

“Your father and his advisors,” King Alistair glowered leaning forward over the table. “But they also told me you were the only option, so here you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” Hredon purred, licking red wine from his teeth. “Lucky you. I do so hope our warships were worth this Fool’s Marriage.”

The King’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t call it that,” he complained.

“Why not?” Hredon shot back. “It certainly seems foolish to me. All this effort to build an empire, and not a single son or daughter to carry it on after you die.”

“That is not your concern,” Alistair waved him away.

“Isn’t it?  _ Darling _ ?” Hredon challenged him pointedly. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re going to be wed. Your legacy is my legacy too, like it or not. So if you’re going to father bastards to fill the ranks, I’d rather know now, so no one catches me by surprise.”

“That won’t happen.”

Hredon chortled, not even bothering to speak. His laugh said all he needed to say on that matter.

“It won’t,” the King defended himself with a scowl. After a moment more, he added, quite reluctantly: “I’m infertile.”

Now, that was a shock. Hredon’s eyebrows quirked before he could remember his composure - the wine made him slip like that. Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked rudely, eyes flicking down to the patch of table that obscured the King’s crotch.

“Nothing’s  _ wrong _ with it!” Alistair snapped.

“And yet you claim you cannot father children,” Hredon drawled, his disbelief clear on his face.

“I had imagined something a little less vulgar for our first conversation,” the King grimaced, eyeing Hredon’s shirt. “I had imagined you dressed more decently, too,” he added.

“Lose the cravat, if you’re so inclined,” Hredon drawled airily, leaning back in his seat. “I’ll put on all the expected airs and graces for the court, but not for you. Especially not if you won’t even slaughter me a pig.”

“Am I to be your personal butcher, now?!” The King sneered.

“Shouldn’t be too hard - just imagine it’s a man on the battlefield.”

In a vain attempt to defuse the situation, a servant stepped forward and placed a covered dish before Hredon. He lifted the cover a moment later, revealing an artfully plated venison steak served with roast potatoes and wild greens. Truly, he would have tried it, if he weren’t feeling so incredibly petulant. Not even the gleam on that steak was more alluring than the sweet siren call of infuriating the man who had dared taken him away from his home. 

“I don’t take a meal in the evenings,” he informed the man neatly. “Didn’t I mention? The fat in bacon tides me over for most of the day.”

The King covered his face with one hand, inhaling deeply. “Take it away,” he said, shaking his head. The servant complied wordlessly, their expression a fixed poker face with just a hint of alarm at the storm brewing in the chamber.

“I’ll gladly finish the wine while we make plans to import that pig,” Hredon smirked.   
  
“Get out.” The words were all Alistair could muster, taking his hand away from his face and balling it into a fist.

Hredon clicked his tongue, rising from the table. Before he took his leave, however, he circled round the table, leaning forward over the hunched King. For whatever reason, the man blanched in his seat, leaning away from him. Hredon decided that he liked that very much. Reaching out, he took his betrothed’s face in one hand, so he could better understand the gravity of his words.

“Give me what I want, Alistair,” he cooed. “It will be so much easier if you do. And don’t summon me to another meal unless pig is on the menu.”

The King didn’t say a word while Hredon made his way out the door, but he looked positively livid. Not livid enough to dissolve their engagement, of course: Hredon wasn’t foolish enough to hope for such a thing. But if he could bully him into a daily taste of home, then living out here in the heart of the continent would be all the more bearable.

***

Back in Hredon’s chambers, the brunet servant was waiting with his evening lavender tea. “M’lord,” he began, “there’s no pig in the kitchens, but the chef says that on occasion, the hunt might yield a boar instead of venison.”

“Spare me, Snitch,” Hredon raised a hand as he strode over to the tea table, pouring himself a cup. 

“M’Lord?” the man balked, confused. “My… my name’s Erikson, if m’lord is so inclined--”

“No, I really think ‘Snitch’ will do,” Hredon said haughtily, stirring honey into his cup with aggravation. So much for the soothing properties of lavender. “Tell me, Snitch,” he drawled, looking over at the man. “Why did the King know about the business I sent you on before I had even had the news back, myself?”

The servant’s face turned red. “M’lord,” he apologised in the form of a bow. “I was only--”

“Yes, yes; you were only following orders. You’re awful good at that, aren’t you? So good, in fact, I already have another job for you.” Hredon said, approaching the man with a shark-like grin growing on his pale face.   
  
“M’Lord?” the young man squeaked.

“Go ask ‘round the garrisons for the names and locations of whorehouses that have boys. I’m not horny now, but report back. And if you’d like to earn back your name sometime in the future, you’ll be sure to give me the report  _ well  _ before you pass on the report to his Majesty.” 

“... Yes, m’lord.”

If the King was so inclined to keep tabs on his affairs, he was in for a rude shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Erikson “Snitch” Mangaef  
> SPECIES: Human  
> AGE: 19  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 5"10"; spry build.  
> FACE: Honey-brown eyes; thick, natural eyebrows; straight nose; wide mouth; rectangular-shaped face. Ruddy complexion; clean-shaven.  
> HAIR: Brunet crew cut.  
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos or piercings. Rough hands from a childhood of cleaning duties.  
> Occupation: Servant, currently assigned to the fiance of King Alistair


	3. Tea Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Finnian Greenbay  
> SPECIES: Human (Magic user - tricks of light)  
> AGE: 23  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 5"8"; Rubenesque build.  
> FACE: Blue eyes sporting one patch of brilliant hazel; shaped eyebrows; button nose; plump lips; heart-shaped face. Freckled complexion; clean-shaven.  
> HAIR: Long, wavy, auburn locks. Common to see it elaborately styled in whatever fashions are popular with the women of the city he is in.  
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos. A few scars from playing as a boy. A half-dozen bejeweled earrings and similarly ornate piercings in his nipples and navel.  
> OCCUPATION: Prostitute

Traditionally, the Archaeon royal garb was navy, but as he wasn’t the King, Hredon had some liberties in terms of colour scheme, and he had chosen black. Well-tailored trousers with a sharp crease, a stiff-collared white shirt embroidered with the Archaeon royal emblem (an ancient thing which to most resembled a boat) and a high-collared, military-style jacket complete with double-breasted buttons and epaulets. On more ostentatious occasions, he might worn a jacket with golden buttons and epaulets, but for the occasion of strolling through Daeraedmore’s less reputable streets, he’d chosen a jacket that was completely black.

Needless to say, wearing such official dress, no one stopped him in the street, and the brothels he visited were quite keen to see him come in. That was, until, he explained that he was looking for a very specific redhead who was not in their employ. It wasn’t until the fourth brothel he visited, a very tall, blanch-white townhouse by the name of Madame Rosalie’s, that Hredon struck gold.

An aging woman in the lavish foyer, dressed in an extravagant, plum-coloured ballgown despite the morning hour, threw back her head with a raucous laugh as soon as he set foot through the front door. “He said you’d come,  _ cherie, _ ” she smirked, pushing herself off the low sofa where she’d sat fanning herself. “Ever since we heard of the engagement, he has been saying you would come. Come! Come, come, come,” she chirped, ushering him up the stairs.

“Oh, good,” Hredon said brightly, following the woman up the stairs. Presumably, the was Madame Rosalie herself. She must have been in the business a very long time to afford her own brothel - not to mention the diamonds and pearls at her throat.   
  
“It is good you come in the morning,” she chuckled as she led him down the hall on the first landing. “He is one of my most popular boys!”

Hredon had come to understand through Finnian’s letters that the less stairs one had to climb to reach a bedroom, the more popular the prostitute, so he supposed that Finnian was doing very well for himself indeed. He watched as the Madame knocked on a carved oak door, calling through: “Finnian! He’s here!”   
  
Moments later, the door burst open and a blur of red hair, pale flesh and various coloured fabrics scooped Hredon up into a hug. “Philaemon!”   
  
It had been so long since Hredon’s father had scolded him like a child, that he’d almost forgotten his second, more private name. He found himself blushing, yet he had no idea why. “Hello, Finnian,” he said, reaching out to cup the man’s cheek. “Can you put me down now?”

“Perhaps,” the zaftig man teased, even as he set his friend back down on the carpet. He beamed at Rosalie. “Madame, can you have some tea sent up? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“And cakes,” Hredon added, managing to pass the woman some gold coins as he was pulled through the door. Breakfast had been a pathetic affair of vegetables and buttered toast without a slice of bacon to be seen. He’d need more sustenance than that to see him through the day.

“Of course,” the woman simpered. “Have fun, you two!”

Hredon found himself in a room arguably just as opulent as his fancy chambers back in the palace, albeit much more colourful. The room itself was much, much smaller, too, so the overall effect was a bursting den of exotic fabrics, gilded furniture and tasselled cushions. Now that he got a proper look at his friend, his jaw dropped at his dress: from behind, the sash of silk belted tightly around the soft flesh at his hips, and a bejewelled broach pinned little more than another bolt of cloth to hang over the cleft of his arse.

“Is that what you’re wearing, these days?!” he remarked incredulously. 

“I know, isn’t is grand?” Finnian grinned wickedly, reaching back to give his rump a slap. “Dreadmore is a funny place: they’re all so morose and proper out in the public eye, but behind close doors, why, they’re twice as lecherous as the pigs back home.”

“Oh, don’t call them that, please,” Hredon complained, walking over to allow himself to wilt dramatically onto a velvet sofa. “My stomach already laments.”

“I did try to warn you,” Finnian tittered, opening a tin of shortbreads on the coffee table and taking one before he passed the box to Hredon. “It’s all game meat, here. I miss it myself, but the money is very, very, good with all these wars the King’s been winning.”   
  
“Yes,” Hredon said dryly, selecting a shortbread. “He’s ever so powerful and wealthy, my dear betrothed.”

“Not to menton,” Finnian’s voice grew hushed as he leaned closer with a wicked gleam in his multi-coloured eyes. “I’ve got the knack of a special trick these days. I make them see stars right after they’ve cum; some men are saying I bring them closer to god.” He snickered, and for the briefest moment, twinkles of light framed the air around his freckled face. 

Hredon gasped, biscuit crumbs dropping from his lips. “You’ve been cheating!” he accused.

Finnian didn’t defend himself, he just tittered and held a finger to his lips as a maid arrived with the tea service. With steaming cups of a strong brew poured (and a fine selection of cakes and fancies, Hredon had to say) they talked for at least an hour about all sorts of things. Mainly about the day-to-day life in Daearaemore and some funny stories about johns, on Finnian’s part, and mainly about how King Alistair was a colossal twat, on Hredon’s. It was only when the teapot was down to the dregs that Hredon hugged the cup and saucer to his chest and looked over, growing more serious.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Are the Order active in Dreadmore? I wasn’t even able to check in with the Archaeon Hand before I left, it was all so sudden. I’d hate to grow rusty in this place.”

“Hmm, not the Order of the Hand, I don’t think,” Finnian hummed. He’d never really been the sort to seek out special training, having always considered his abilities to be more of a fanciful parlour trick than anything else. “There might be some other society, but I’d have to ask around. Promise me you won’t wander looking for one,” he added sharply, giving his friend a look. “Dreadmore’s not as safe as Archaeon, especially not at night.”

Hredon clicked his tongue. “I’ve never been in peril ever, in my life,” he defended himself. “ _ Especially _ not at night.”

“Don’t you be a fool about this, Philaemon,” Finnian scolded him, pursing his lips. “You hardly even know anyone here, not even your fiance.”

“I know he’s a huge--” Hredon’s words were interrupted by a thundering of footsteps and the bedroom door bursting open. Two royal guards staggered through, and clearly they had assumed something different was going on behind the closed door. They’d taken a few steps towards the empty bed, stopped, and become somewhat bewildered when they instead spotted the two men curled up on the sofa like schoolgirls, surrounded by a half-eaten pastry assortment.

Hredon’s nose wrinkled. Clearly, Snitch had been following orders again. He’d expected as much. “Do you mind?” he asked with a sneer. “We’re taking tea.”

“And bringing my reputation into question, it seems,” a cold voice announced as a third man entered the room. Hredon’s eyes widened to see that King Alistair himself had come personally to intervene. He had to admit that he had not expected the man to waste his time. Suddenly worried, he glanced at Finnian, who was certainly looking a lot more pale than moments ago. 

“We weren’t--” he stammered, fearing for his friend’s wellbeing. “We’re not  _ involved _ .”

“That much is clear.” The said sternly, striding into the room. Hredon half expected to be struck across the face, but what happened was even worse: the man bodily hauled him up over his shoulder as though he were a bundle of sticks, or a child throwing a tantrum. He very rapidly resembled the latter, trying his damnedest to knee the man in the chest.

“Put me down!” Hredon screamed, already being carried towards the door. 

“I will not have you causing a scene,” Alistair hissed, holding him fast.

Hredon caught one last glimpse of Finnian, who was covering his mouth (whether to hold back shock or laughter, he couldn’t say) before he was out into the hall. “And you think carrying me through the streets won’t cause a scene, you cad?!”

“Not at all,” the King shot back. “A carriage is right outside.”

“Do come again,” the Madame chortled from her lounge, sipping brandy.

***

The carriage had taken one of the service roads into the castle, and Hredon had been manhandled through some dimly-listed passageways before they arrived at a chamber that was so much like a dungeon, with nought but a bare wooden table in the centre. The King shut the door behind them with an ominous  _ thunk _ , leaving just the two of them in the chamber.

“Strip,” he ordered.

“What?” Hredon looked at him, repulsed. A moment later, the man closed the distance between them and ripped his jacket open, sending ebony buttons pinging to the stone floor. 

“Are you  _ mad _ ?!” Hredon cried, only to have his dress shirt follow suit. And him, with his tailors thousands of miles away! “This was one of my favourite shirts!”

The King said nothing, his face fixed with an intent scowl as he pulled the apart and down Hredon’s pale shoulders, inspecting his neck and back for any marks of passion. Of course, the skin was bare, save for the pink where he’d been thrown over Alistair’s shoulder. The disgust matured on Hredon’s face as he realised the nature of the King’s inspection.

“I  _ told  _ you,” he jeered. “We are  _ not  _ involved. The tea might have progressed to a luncheon if we were not so rudely interrupted, but that’s all.”

The King inhaled sharply through his nose, hands moving quickly to Hredon's fly.

“Good god!” Hredon cried, trying in vain to grab the man’s wrists to stop him, but he was too strong. Before he knew it, his trousers and drawers were around his ankles, and a rough hand was bending him over the wooden table. Before now, Hredon had only suffered such indignity between his doctor, particularly when Alistair grabbed one of his cheeks and spread it to one side to inspect his arsehole.

“Are you  _ satisfied _ ?!” Hredon spat, pounding his fists on the table. Anger was boiling through his veins, and if the man hadn’t let him stand up that very moment, he might have kicked him in the balls.

“Are you chaste?” King Alistair countered, his eyes burning with a different kind of anger. 

Hredon snorted as he ducked down to pull up his trousers, buttoning his fly. “No,” he scoffed. “I've touched myself more times than I can count. I even did it once on the carriage here to pass the time."

“This is not a game!” Alistair yelled, grabbing the Prince by the shoulders.

Hredon grimaced, feeling the man’s fingers squeeze painfully at the joint of his shoulders. “If you must know,” he ground out the words in a hateful whisper, “apart from the touching, yes, I've done my royal duty and abstained for marriage.”

The grip on his shoulders abated, but the King didn’t let go just yet. “The whore, who is he to you?” he asked.

“None of your business.”

The grip tightened again, and Kredon let out a huffing sigh. “Fine,” he snapped. “If my privacy must be violated even further, he’s a commoner from Archaeon. We share the same birthday. It’s customary for such children to be playmates in Archaeon, even if one is the King’s son. His mother used to work in the kitchens, and when he came into his manhood, he left to sell his talents for money.”

“And he is, inexplicably, stationed presently in Daeraedmore,” the King noted.

“Well, you can blame yourself for that,” Hredon replied airily. “Victorious soldiers live to spend their wages. I called in at nearly half a dozen brothels before I found him, and I had a dozen more left to check after that.”

“It’s no place for a Prince,” the King sneered. “Put on your shirt.”

“I can’t,” Hredon said bitterly. “Your Majesty has ripped off all the buttons. Perhaps I will retire to my rooms shirtless.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I’ve swam nude in Green Bay,” Hredon countered, already heading towards the door. “In Archaeon, we don’t all have sticks up our arses like you Dreadmorians.”

A strong grip hauled him back by the neck, as though the King’s hands were one of those crooks used to take bad performers off a stage. Once he got close enough, he wrapped an arm around the Prince’s waist and all but threw him on top of the table.

“What are you-- aah!” Hredon thrashed, lips twisting in a grimace as the King’s mouth closed over the junction of his neck. He wasn’t biting him, per se, he’d certainly be in a lot more pain if he did that, but he sucked hard at the skin, teeth grazing over the surface with a growl.

Breathing heavily, the King broke for air, looking down at the brilliant, red weal he’d raised there, blood lingering just below the surface of the skin. “That ought to keep you out of those harlot’s shirts for a while,” he muttered, voice ragged. “Yield, or I’ll make another.” 

“You wouldn’t--”

Hredon screamed again as the King dipped his head and made another mark on the other side. Snarling, he worked his fingers into the King’s long hair, pulling him back as though his pony tail was a rope. “You horrible leech!” he hissed. “Get  _ off  _ me!”

“Then do as I say,” the King growled, lips swollen. “I’ve done a lot worse to men for a lot less.”

“I know,” Hredon said with a livid glare. “I’ve seen sketches of the battlefields once you’re through with them.”

The King’s nostrils flared, and he stood. “That’s different,” he said, looking away.

“It isn’t,” Hredon said, hands balling to fists as he sat up. 

“That was  _ war _ .”

“Some of them seemed like a lot like massacres to me,” Hrdeon hissed. 

“There’s no reasoning with you,” Alistair scowled, straightening out his own suit jacket. “If you want to sulk here, then sulk. I’ll send down a servant to sew your buttons. But if I find out you’ve so much as set one foot outside this chamber without being fully dressed, I’ll confine you to your rooms.”

“Bastard,” Hredon spat.

The door closed loudly.


	4. SEW HELP ME GOD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Watsen Fjorna  
> SPECIES: Human  
> AGE: 21   
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 6’0"; willowy build.   
> FACE: Cloudy blue eyes; delicate eyebrows; pinched nose; thin lips; long face. Pale complexion; clean-shaven.   
> HAIR: Long, blond hair secure in a low pony tail.   
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos. A single copper hoop in his right ear. A few light burn scars on his forearms.   
> Occupation: Servant, currently serving the fiance of King Alistair as Bootler

“He’s a cunt! He’s a putrid, bastardous whelp! I’ve met flagrant  _ criminals  _ who conducted themselves with more chivalry than he!”   
  
“... Yes, m’lord,” came the very hesitant agreement. Hredon’s blond servant, the bootler, whose name was Watsen, was sitting on the dungeon floor at the foot of the table. He was working (albeit very slowly) at the buttons of Hredon’s shirt, with the help of a lantern on the table’s corner. Hredon, for his part, was lying on top of the table as though it were a therapist’s lounge, waxing poetic about his hatred for the King. It was actually very soothing - for Hredon, anyway.

“He very well could have sent you down here with an entirely new shirt from my wardrobe, but  _ no _ . Such a sadistic tyrant is he, that he explicitly told you that you were only to sew, keeping me waiting down her like some kind of-- oh,” he lost his train of thought as the lantern on the table died, plunging the room into shadows. “For god’s sake.”

“Not to worry, m’lord,” Watsen sighed, setting down the shirt. “I’ll fetch another lantern from the store room.”

“No, no,” Hredon stopped him, sitting up with a groan. “That will take far too long. Here, give me a moment,” he picked up the lantern, twisting away from the man. Tilting the thing on an angle, he sighed and snapped his fingers, producing a merry little flame on his fingertip. He held it to the candle wick, melting away the smothering wax before setting the thing alight again. He uprighted the lantern and shook the flame from his hand before Watsen could get a good look at it from where he was seated on the ground.

“M’lord?” the man asked, evidently confused as to how he’d worked so quickly.

“Always carry matches upon your person, bootler,” Hredon informed him sagely. “You never know when you’ll need them.”

“I did carry matches, when I was a lantern keeper,” Watsen sighed, picking up the needle again. “I didn’t think I’d need them as a bootler. I didn’t even know it involved sewing.”

“It’s true, you have many, many things to learn as a bootler,” Hredon said wistfully, swinging his legs where he sat upon the edge of table. “How’s that shirt coming along?”   
  
“Almost done, m’lord,” Watsen sighed, picking up another button. “Though I can’t say how long the jacket might take me.”   
  
“God, never mind the jacket, I don’t want to die down here,” Hredon chortled, hopping off the table. “I’ll just gather all the buttons and you can fix it later, in natural light. I just need the shirt to cover these hideous marks that prick gave me.”

“Th… thank you, m’lord.” Watsen said uncertainly, watching the man scour the dank tiles.

“Hm?”

“Most noblemen would consider button-gathering beneath their station,” Watsen clarified.

Hredon snorted. “Sounds like typical Dreadmore nonsense. We’re a lot more practical in Archaeon.”

“If I may, m’lord, you’d do well not to say such a thing to the King. He loathes it,” Watsen advised.

“What, that’s he’s inept? I’ve told him thrice since meeting him.” Hredon said, picking up another button.

“No, m’lord - mispronouncing Daeraedmore. It’s become very common in anti-Daeraedmore propaganda.”   
  
“What fantastic ammunition,” Hrdeon said brightly. “Excellent work, Watsen. We’ll make a fine bootler out of you yet.”   
  
Watsen groaned. The sentiment of his words had been entirely misinterpreted.

“Actually, that’s exactly what we need, Watsen! More ammunition,” Hredon snapped his fingers, careful not to summon a flame, this time. “Arrogance breeds carelessness. I’m sure we’ll find some dirt on him when we search.”

“... Search where, m’lord?” Watsen asked, already knowing that he would hate the answer.

“Why, his bedchambers, of course.”

***

Half an hour later, a jacket-less Hredon and a very pale-looking Watsen were hurrying along the corridor towards the royal bedchamber, mainly because it was Hredon who was setting the pace. When they arrived at the grand mahogany doors, they were stopped by two guards.

“Halt,” one of them said, tilting his spear to block the door. “No entry except under orders of the King.”

“And I am the King’s betrothed,” Hredon answered back matter-of-factly. “I should expect to become very well acquainted with his bedchambers, don’t you agree?”

“I do, m’lud, but you aren’t married yet.”

“Do you, now?” Hredon wrinkled his nose, his face looming closer with a growing intensity in his one visible eye.

The guard swallowed, but held his ground. “Aye, m’lud.”

Frowning, Hredon reached up and started to unbutton his collar. The guard gave him a funny look that worsened into sheer discomfort when the Prince revealed the dark hickeys marring his throat. 

“I would say that we have become very close regardless,” Hredon glowered. “Now let me pass, for if I have to go back to his Majesty with the news that I was barred entry, he won’t be happy.”

The guard, close to sweating, yielded, and that was how Hredon and his bootler suddenly found themselves in the King’s most private chambers. Despite his rank, they weren’t as ostentatious as they were rumoured to be, with function obviously taking precedence over fashion. And of course, as would be expected: yet more black gossamer and too many candles. It did come as something of a relief, however, that the insanely wealthy prick had eschewed the solid-gold four-poster in favour of a more tasteful mahogany bedframe with black silk sheets.

“Right,” Hredon said, clapping his hands. “There must be something in here that condemns his Majesty as a fiend or pervert.”

“Begging the eighth, my lord, but this is a terrible idea,” Watsen said, milling about in the centre of the room, too uncomfortable to touch anything. 

Hredon, who hadn’t been paying much attention because he was busy making a beeline for the King’s dresser, merely hummed in response. Rifling through the contents, he found a few items that told him a little about King Alistair, of course, but not in the damning way he’d hoped. Despite his reluctance to import pig, he did use a boar bristle hairbrush. He favoured a cedarwood cologne. Despite Hredon’s assumption, his terribly fashionable ghastly pallor did not appear to be through the use of face powder, like most men in the court.

Yet none of this was what he was looking for: what Hredon wanted to find were instruments of perversion, or some kind of medicine for a horribly embarrassing ailment. Such as…

“This could be something,” Hredon piped up, listing a brown glass bottle up for inspection. “Watsen, come here. What is this mark?”

The bottle held no writing on its label; it was simply stamped with a snake coiled underneath an eye. Reluctantly, Watsen came closer, peering over the Prince’s shoulder at the label. “It appears to be a supply from the local apothecary, your Highness,” he said. “I can’t recall the name, it’s just ‘the apothecary’ to me.”

“What do you suppose it could be? Perhaps an anti-fungus?” Hredon said hopefully, opening the cap and looking closer. The lid was affixed with a glass eyedropper, but they didn’t look like any eyedrops that Hredon had ever seen. Most were clear, but this liquid was a murky brown, without any scent that his nose could detect.

“I should hope not, m’lord,” Watsen pointed out. “You’ll be sharing the King’s bed soon.”

Hredon pulled a face, capping the bottle. “You’re right. I must know.” He pocketed the bottle and turned towards the door.

“M’lord?” Watsen enquired anxiously. “I don’t think it would be wise to take it.”

“Oh, relax, Watsen,” Hredon huffed. “It’s not stealing if I plan to return them. Now, follow my lead.”

He opened the bedroom door again, so soon after he had arrived, with a forlorn expression, buckled over as though he was in great pain. “Woe!” he cried, but only quietly, grabbing the guard’s shoulder for a moment before Watsen hurried to his side. “I’ve taken a sickly turn. I’ll endeavour to get news to my beloved, but should he asked for me, tell him out little tryst wasn’t meant to be.”

The guard looked as though he would prefer to die before repeating such words to the King, so it would be very fortunate for him when the King never asked, because he’d never sent Hredon there in the first place.

***

At the entrance to the Great Hall, yet more guards: this time, ones that could not be tricked.

“We regret to inform his Highness that he has been forbidden exit from the castle, except under pain of fire, siege, or guarded escort.”

Hredon clicked his tongue. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go get one of those.”

Watsen stared at the floor, wondering if he might become party to arson today.

***

The King was in his council chamber, as he was so often likely to be, in the company of his generals and advisors who were all visibly decades older than his person. They were discussing a map of the content placed with many tiny figurines and more recently, miniature boats, when the door loudly opened and Hredon strode in.

“Prince Hredon,” the King greeted him warily, having not expected to see him again so soon after his recent defeat.

“Yes, like a phoenix from the ashes, I return stronger from all humiliation,” Hredon announced with great grandeur, coming up to King Alistair’s seat. Leaning closer, he dropped his voice to a murmur. “I need an escort to the apothecary. There’s some certain remediesI need, to treat certain marks, that a certain  _ villain  _ has made. Shall I explain all the sordid details, very loudly, or shall I be on my way with my escort?”

The King squirmed in his seat. “Very well,” he hissed, waving him away. “Go and take your escort. Quietly,” he added loudly, rubbing his temples.

***

“You’re very devious, m’lord,” Watsen noted as they walked together, just behind the armed guards, on their way to the local apothecary.

“Thank you, Watsen. You’re fast becoming my favourite,” Hredon purred. “Perhaps you can bring Snitch to heel one of these days. I like him the least, by far.”

“Erikson, my lord?”

“Yes, him.”

The apothecary was especially large, judging by the standards of a typical apothecary, and Hredon suspected that it had achieved some kind of monopolisation in the city, especially as it seemed that everyone knew it as  _ the  _ apothecary, and the establishment did not seem to have an actual name. The sign that hung over the two large, green doors was simply painted with the same emblem of the snake and the eye that he had seen on the label, and nothing more. After convincing the guards to remain at the door so they couldn’t pry, he approach the counter with Watsen at his heels, where he found a little old woman with a prominent nose and one milky eye. The other eye was bright and sharp, though, almost as though it was a great deal younger than it’s partner.

“Welcome, welcome…” the old woman greeted each of them with briefly steepled fingertips. “How might old Attie be of service?”

“Bruise tonic,” Hredon explained simply, fishing the little bottle out of his pocket. “However, it is a far more pressing matter that you identify the contents of this bottle for me.”

“Oh? It’s one of ours, yes,” the woman said, taking the bottle from the Prince and opening it up. She took a long sniff, though what she was smelling exactly, Hredon couldn’t say. “Who does it belong to?”

“My spouse,” Hredon said, neglecting to explain the finer details, such as not being yet married.

“Your spouse with the brown eyes, yes?” the old woman chuckled.

“Why, yes,” Hredon frowned. “How did you know?”

“One of old Attie’s specialties,” the women chuckled, capping the bottle once more and returning it. “One drop in each eye every morning, and thine eyes will be as brown as oak bark. You could use a little yourself, my dear. Old Attie sees through that fringe.”

Hredon found himself blushing despite his composure training, smoothing over his fringe. “Yes, well,” he cleared his throat. “Thank you for your assistance.” He turned to leave.

“And the bruise tonic, my dear?” the old woman called after him.

“Right.” Hredon stopped, digging out his purse. “How much?”

“Are they bruises of passion, or pain?”

Hredon raised his eyebrows. “Does that make a difference?”

“All the difference in the world, my dear,” Attie cackled.

Hredon pursed his lips, leaning forward over the counter to speak more quietly. “Passion, I expect,” he admitted.

“Very good, very good…” Attie turned to open one of her many cabinets, rifling through the rows of tiny bottles and jars. How she told them apart, Hredon didn’t know, as all their labels were without words, too. Finally, she took a small jar off the shelf and opened it up to reveal a brilliant orange cream, taking a sniff. “Yes,” she said, turning and handing it over. 

Hredon, for the hell of it, took a sniff too, faintly picking up notes of pine and sage. 

“Six gold,” Attie told him. “Apply the balm after your bath, and it will help the marks fade.”

“Thank you,” Hredon said as he counted out his coins. It was expensive, for such a small pot of cream, but he couldn’t very well go back empty-handed after causing such a fuss to get his escort. 

“See you again!” Attie bade them farewell.

***

Back in Hredon’s chambers, standing over his washbasin, Hredon hooked his fringe behind one ear and met his own two-tone gaze in the mirror. Curiously, he uncapped the eyedrops, and brought the eyedropper up to his one blue eye. A few moments later, his cry of surprise was so loud that it sent Watsen running to him, sewing needle still in hand.

“It works!” Hredon cried, turning to the man with two brown eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“It’s a very good apothecary,” Watsen conceded. “My mother swears by the crone’s bath salts for gnarled hands.”

“Yes,” Hredon said suspiciously, “but that does beg the question: why on Earth does the King need such a thing?”

He suspected he would have to ask him.


	5. J'ACCUSE

That evening, Hredon had skolled three full glasses of water before retiring to bed. It had been at Watsen’s recommendation: an old trick that the lantern keepers used to make sure they woke up before dawn to light the kitchens. And wake before dawn he did: Watsen could barely tie his shoes before Hredon was sprinting for the latrines (he did so hate to use a chamber pot now that his bootler was getting to be his favourite).    
  


After that matter was taken care of, Hredon returned to his rooms and dressed a little more formally in Archaeon navy and made his way back up to the King’s chambers, making simpering eye contact with the guard before he knocked on the door. He had no shame in pressing his ear to the door right in front of the guard when it failed to be answered promptly.

‘ _ Where could they possibly be?! _ ’

‘ _ They’re not in the dresser, m’lud. _ ’

‘ _ Check again! _ ’

Hredon smirked a devious smirk, and knocked again, much more loudly.

‘ _ For god’s sake! Go see to it. _ ’

A few moments later, the door opened to reveal a very large woman with a kind face and a very sensible-looking grey dress. Her appearance gave Hredon a moment of pause, for it was unusual for a servant to be so portly, on account of all the running around. He supposed she might have been a nanny that the man had kept on long after his childhood for sentimental reasons, but he hoped not, because he certainly didn’t want the kind of man who couldn’t part with a nanny for a husband.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I believe I have something his Majesty needs,” Hredon introduced himself silkily with a grin that exposed his canines. Over the woman’s round shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the king, still wearing a burgundy dressing gown, hunched over his dresser. 

“His Majesty isn’t yet decent, dear,” the woman told him. “Perhaps you could come back after breakfast?”

“I don’t believe that’s well advised,” Hredon said, pulling the bottle of eye drops from his pocket for her to see.

The woman squeaked in surprise at the sight of it, one hand snatching out to grab it on reflex, but Hredon was much too nimble. 

“Hilda?” Alistair called. “What is it?”

“Your Majesty… he… he has them,” the woman stammered, looking back and forth between the King and the Prince, unsure what to do. She cast an uneasy glance at the guard, too, who was giving both of them a strange look.

“Might I butt in?” Hredon purred, slipping through the door before the maid could protest further. She fretted for a moment before pushing the door shut behind him in defeat.

King Alistair was still at his dresser, gripping the edges of the table so tightly that his already pale knuckles were turning white. “How?” he ground out the word.

“Never you mind,” Hredon told him, placing the bottle pointedly on a small serving table in the middle of the room. Hilda started towards it, but Hredon halted her with a raised finger and a stern outburst. “ _ No _ . I would like a word with my betrothed. Right, darling?” he asked the King’s back with a great deal of venom.

Alistair took a deep breath. “It’s fine, Hilda,” he said. “Go to the kitchens. I can see to this and dress myself.”

“If you say so, dear. Ahem. M’lud,” The woman corrected herself, bustling out of the bedroom.

God, maybe she  _ was  _ a former nanny.

“Bring them here,” the King ordered tersely, palm upturned. He still faced away from the Prince.

“Ha!” Hredon barked. “Not likely! Your theatrics are wasted anyway; I’ve already had a delightful little chat with the crone at the apothecary.”

“So you’re a thief and a liar,” the King groused.

“T’was a half-truth,” Hredon said snootily. “I really did need that cream, and it had best work, for the prices she’s charging. But I’d suppose you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Come on, now; turn around if you want to be able to face the court today.”

King Alistair did turn around, with a grimace so murderous that Hredon might have imagined him on the battlefield, if it weren’t for the dressing gown. The expression was made all the more striking by the man’s brilliant, crimson eyes. Hredon had never seen anything like it.

“No,” Alistair said darkly, moving towards the eye drops. Once again. Hredon was too fast, snatching up the bottle again.

“I will throttle you,” the King warned, circling round the table. 

“The hell you will,” Hredon sneered. “Battery is grounds for dissolution under Archaeon law. I’d sooner see the entire navy scuttled than become the stuff of tragic tales.”

“Then just fucking  _ give  _ them to me!” Alistair snarled. 

“I would be delighted,” Hredon snapped back. “Just as soon as you explain what the  _ hell  _ this is.” He pointed to each of the man’s eyes with one finger. He still circled around the table with careful footwork while Alistair stalked him like some kind of beast. Thank god for the classical dance lessons.

“It’s the bloody propaganda!” Alistair roared, slapping at the table before he wheeled away in a huff. It teetered dangerously on its carved feet.

“For god’s sake, get ahold of yourself!” Hredon snapped. The damn thing nearly tipped over, but he stepped forward to steady it just in time. Alistair must have anticipated this, for in the next moment, he was back at the table with a hand around Hredon’s wrist in a vice-like grip. In retrospect, it was exactly the sort of tactics one could expect from a man who’d won battles all around the continent, though Hredon wasn’t sure how he had moved so quickly. For a moment, he said nothing, simply staring at the King with a tense frown.

“It’s a failing of pigment,” the King said finally, looking equally tense.

Hredon squinted, peering at the man’s eyes. “There certainly seems to be some kind of pigment at play,” he told him suspiciously.

“That’s just how it is,” Alistair hissed. “The crone calls it Albinism.”

Albinism! One of the old codgers in the Order of the Hand had had such a condition, although there was no chance in hell that Hredon was going to mention that to the King. He recalled quite clearly, however, that although the man was so old that his hair was snow white, he’d told Hredon that it had been that way all of his life. He gasped as he had another, far more aggravating realisation.

“You’re not infertile at all, are you?!” he accused. “You just don’t want to pass it on!”

“I have not lied about anything but this,” the King glowered. “The court cannot know: the propagandists would denounce it as a weakness of body and of character.”

“What about your hair?” Hredon asked boldly. “I met a man without pigment and it made his hair white. Yours most certainly is  _ not _ .”

“I dye it.”

“Prove it.”

“How could I possibly do that?” Alistair pulled a face.

“Surely you don’t dye all of it.” Hredon said pointedly, nodding down in the direction of the man’s groin.

The King’s face grew perturbed. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh really?” Hredon challenged, feeling his blood boil. “Are you suddenly so shy after our exchange yesterday? I think a little payback is in order!” He moved forward, reaching for the sash of the man’s robe with his free hand. 

“Get away from me!” the King snapped, twisting his body away from the Prince, though he was reluctant to release his grip on the hand that held his precious eyedrops. 

“Never!” Hredon came around the table and continued to grab for the man’s robe, tangling his legs in between the King’s in a vain attempt to stop him from getting away. It sent the both of them crashing to the floor, when the Prince redoubled his efforts to get at the King’s cock. He could only manage it from behind, going in blind.

The King let out a howl as ruthless fingers plucked a pube from his groin. “ _ Bastard! _ ”

Hredon was too busy inspecting the hair to be insulted. “As brown as they come,” he grimaced, flicking the hair back in the King’s face. “Albinism, my arse.”

“ _ Why must you be so difficult in every possible way?! _ ” the King yelled.

Just then, the door opened, and the guard rushed in with a beet red face. “Begging your pardon, m’lud!” he said, balling his hands and staring at the ground, his eyes barely daring to dart at the indecent royal tangle on the floor.

Alistair groaned in sheer exasperation, rolling onto his back and pulling his robe closed. Hredon could only stare in confusion.

“Begging your pardon, m’lud,” the guard repeated nervously. “But I feel I must call on the Article of the Eighth and inform you that a King should not be conducting himself in this way before marriage. Why, come your wedding day, I’m sure--”

“Yes, thank you, Leif,” the King interrupted him wearily. “Consider our behaviour corrected.”

“Does it look like we’re fucking?” Hredon asked incredulously.

“Shut up,” Alistair told him, getting to his feet and finally snatching the bottle of eye drops out of the Prince’s hand. “Leif,” he called, stalking back to his dresser. “See the Prince back to his rooms.”

***

“Snitch,” Hredon called curiously, back in his rooms. He lay on his belly on his bed, kicking his heels in the air as he imagined ways to further hold the eye drops against the King.

“Erikson, m’lord,” the servant corrected him wearily.

“Snitch,” Hredon said again. “The guard today said something strange that made the King lose nearly all of his bark. Something about Article Eight, I believe.”

“The Article of the Eighth, m’lord?” Erikson replied.

“What is it?”

“I should hope you know what it is, m’lord,” Watsen piped up from the corner where he sat shining boots. “I expect I’ll need to plead it with you often.”

“Article of the Eighth;” Erikson recited, “a servant may not be punished for doing what is just and true. It’s a very important principle, especially to the likes of us.”

“Yes,” Hredon agreed, for it did indeed sound quite fair, “but a principle of  _ what _ ?” He knew for a fact that some things could appear out of thin air, but it was seldom legal protections for the downtrodden.

“Why, a principle of Daeraedmore, of course,” Watsen piped up, pausing in his work. “Do you really not know? Most ambassadors to Daeraedmore are well versed.”

“I’m an Ambassador of Purveyance, not Principle,” Hredon pointed out. “In fact, I’d argue that principle is often absent from the practice of purveying. It’s much more about money.”

“The Principles of Daeraedmore have been in effect for generations,” Erikson said. “The King is deeply committed to upholding them. It portrays a noble image, I expect.”

“That’s interesting,” Hredon said keenly.

“I can fetch you a book on them, if you like,” Erikson offered. “There must be at least a dozen copies in the library.”

“Please do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Hilda Gwensdottir  
> SPECIES: Human  
> AGE: 40   
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 5’9"; portly build.   
> FACE: Cloudy blue eyes; rounded eyebrows; snub nose; cupid’s bow lips; fleshy cheeks. Rosy complexion; eschews makeup.   
> HAIR: Long, salt-and-pepper hair typically held back in a low bun.   
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos or notable scars. Copper studs in each ear lobe.   
> OCCUPATION: Servant, currently serving King Alistair Iain Daeraed


	6. The Pigs of Justice

In the morning, Hredon was especially chipper. Unnaturally so, one might say. The book Snitch has fetched from the library, a mass-produced tome with the long-winded title of 'Principles of Application for a Just and Victorious Daeraedmore', by one Percivius A. Daeraed, had been an interesting read indeed. A very interesting read. 

"This is a great cream," remarked as he stood at the mirror, inspecting his neck. Perhaps the prices the apothecary charged were warranted. The marks had already begun to fade from an angry red to a mottled purple and yellow. "Why, a few more days and I'd wager I'll be able to wear my poet's shirts again."

"For today, shall I lay out a formal suit, m'lord?" Watsen asked. "Any colour preference?" 

“The burgundy, I think. Where is the King, now?” Hredon asked genially. “I need to have a word.”

“He’s with the council, m’lord,” Snitch said. “Making plans for the wedding, I believe.”

The smile fell from Hredon’s face. “He's _what_?!”

***

In the slightly later morning, Hredon was an equal mix of joy and fury. The outrage of it! Making arrangements for their wedding day without involving him personally. Why, even when he burst through the chamber door, some of the older men squirmed uncomfortably in their seats, as if they were fully aware of their crimes.

“Darling,” he called with a dangerously fixed smile, skirting around the long table to where King Alistair sat at the head of it. “You couldn’t possibly be making wedding plans without me, could you?”

“We might be,” The King drawled. "How do you feel about early winter?" 

"It's fine, if you like rain on your wedding day," Hredon answered swiftly. 

"I was asking Wilsson, not you," Alistair said dryly. 

Wilsson, an balding man in a general's uniform, cleared his throat and spoke up. "With respect, sire, while we had agreed that winter would interfere the least with battle plans, further discussions have led us to believe that it's prudent to get the act over and done with as soon as possible." 

Hredon groaned. "Just what every bride wants to hear." Of course the bloodied King would care so much that the ceremony wouldn't interrupt his latest attack on wherever to expand his precious empire. 

"Last I checked," the King frowned. "You aren't a bride."

"I am, by a Fool's definition," Hredon insisted. He ignored the face the King pulled at the name. "Last I checked, you're already a King, and I'm just a Prince. Not even a Crown Prince any more, after recent developments. That means you outrank me. So unless you're planning to abdicate, I am, for all intents and purposes, the bride. Ribbons and dowry and all." 

"There will not be ribbons," King Alistair said stiffly. 

"Maybe so, but there _will_ be a dowry." Hredon smirked, choosing this time to stride forward and force his way into sitting on the King's lap. He looped his arms around the brunet's neck to make sure he wasn't pushed off. Pleasantly enough, he could already see the King's blood beginning to boil. Around them, the councilmen murmured in surprise but seemed wise enough not to make any protest. 

"You know," Alistair said darkly, giving Hredon a snide glare. "I could have you committed for hysteria, if you keep acting in this way." 

“Mmm, but you can’t, can you?” Hredon beamed. “Because the Article of the Twelfth states that a man may not commit his lover without a second opinion, for his is biased. And do you know what the Article of the Thirteenth says?” he asked sweetly, tapping a finger on the tip of the man’s nose.

“... Fuck,” the King swore, realising where the Prince was headed.

“That’s right,” Hredon chirped as though the man had answered correctly. “Article of the _Thirteenth_ says that a husband may not refuse a bride a reasonable dowry of her choosing, for it will ensure her livelihood.”

“That principle was applied to protect women from destitution upon the death of their husbands,” King Alistair snapped. “If you make a mockery of that by demanding a pig, I swear to god--”

“Oh, no, darling, I wouldn’t dream of asking for one pig for my dowry. I’m asking for _twelve_ pigs. Do you know why I’m asking for _twelve_ pigs?” Hredon asked, batting his eyelashes.

“Is it enough bacon to finally kill you?” the King asked, causing several old generals to break out into sudden, conspicuous coughs.

“No,” Hredon smiled, reaching out to cup the man’s cheek. “I’m asking for twelve pigs because I have it on very good authority from the farmers in Itallyon that it’s the minimum number of breeding pairs required to farm with a low risk of inbreeding. And we’ll be paying peasants on the moors a stipend to raise said pigs, in pigstys of your own commissioning. All very, very reasonable demands considering the purse of a King, I’m sure you’d agree. And every few months or so, one of those peasants will walk one of those pigs up the hill to the castle, and it will be lashings of bacon for me.” At the end of his speech, the Prince’s fingernails were all but digging into the flesh of the King’s cheek, who had evidently done some composure training of his own.

“Am I to understand,” the King glowered, pushing Hredon’s hand away from his face, “that on the very, very small, arguably infinitesimal, chance that I die and you are left to your own devices, you would become a pig farmer?”

“I would love nothing more,” Hredon said wistfully, leaning closer. “I might even continue to direct your country’s trade on the side, should the mood strike me. I’m very good at it.”

The King’s mouth pulled down at the corners, creating a sour expression. “Gallagher,” he spoke up finally.

An older man spoke up from further down the table. “Yes, m’lord?” 

“See to it that this kind of tenacity is demonstrated when we march on Pradstan.” 

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

Alistair’s broody eyes slid to Hredon’s with an unwavering frown. “Very well, _darling_ , you will have your dowry, on two conditions. The first being that you get off my lap.”

“Of course, beloved,” Hredon simpered, kissing the man on the cheek before he climbed off. The King ignored it and pushed on. 

“The second being that we hold the wedding ceremony at twilight,” he said, leaning over the papers on the table and tapping a finger on a map of a courtyard. “There’s prime positioning for lanterns throughout this garden, and a later ceremony means the drunkards will have less time to cause trouble before dawn. It’s not a church ceremony, but I can assure you that it will be very tasteful.”

“What?” Hredon blinked, leaning over the table. He preferred the help of spectacles for reading. “Whoever said I wanted a church wedding?”

The King shot him a funny look. “You were wearing a crucifix on your first night here.”

“One can place a hat on a dog,” Hredon said, “it does not make that dog a scholar.”

“The very first word of your titles is ‘Enlightened’,” Alistair carried on incredulously.

“Yes, Enlightened Scholar of the Arts. If I were particularly devout, I would receive the accolade Keeper of the Faith, but this is not the case. I wear the crucifix because it belonged to my mother, not because I’m a zealot." Hredon scoffed. Of all the assumptions to make! Hredon couldn't even remember the last time he set foot in a church that wasn't for someone's wedding or worse, a funeral. It was all ghastly business, religion - even more bloody than the world of business. 

"So you're not anointed," Alistair peered at him. 

It took Hredon a moment to piece together what he was saying: the Archaeus family had only ever been devout at the very fringes of the family tree, from trunk to leaves. The practice of washing babies before the gods was seldom bothered with. Much like himself, he was sure his mother only wore the jewelery because it too, reminded her of her own ancestors. "No. The only divine baths I've had have been with the use of scented oils."

"And yet you wear the crucifix."

"What of it?" Hredon grew defensive. "Is it so far-fetched that a man misses his mother? The brutes back home had the gall to suggest it be melted down to make our wedding bands.”

“Absolutely not,” the King blanched.

“Remarkable,” Hredon shot the King a funny look. “It’s the first thing we sincerely agree on. Mother would be so happy.”

"We will need rings, though," the King considered, rubbing his chin as he looked away in thought. "Tarriket has started paying taxes to the empire. We could ask for emeralds. Would that please you?" he asked, looking at Hredon. 

"I couldn't say," Hredon mused, looking over the dozen old men who were watching all of this unfold. "It's particularly difficult to arrive at a decision with an audience of elderly strangers. Meaning no offense," he added, insincerely. 

“Hrm,” Alistair frowned. “I don’t wish to adjourn. We need to plan the attack on Pradstan. It will be no small feat.”

“There is a possibility that they could weather a siege for many months,” Gallagher piped up in a croaky voice.

“Then might I suggest,” Hredon offered with performative sweetness, “that you keep the council for council business, and matters of our union are discussed with me personally at another time.” _Like they should have been in the first place,_ he added, in thought. He was feeling particularly kind after his win with the dowry.

“Fine. Go,” the King dismissed him. “And I expect a proper paperwork for that pigsty, import forms and all!” he called after him. It was the only spite he could think of presently.

“Please,” Hredon called back as he sailed towards the door. “I already drew them up last night.”

A very satisfying victory indeed.


	7. The Revenge Boar

“Master! Come quickly!”

Hredon roused from his bed as though in a fever dream. “What? What is it?!” It wasn’t Watsen or even Snitch calling: it was one of the other three. Already basking in the sheer abundance of having two personal manservants, Hredon often assigned the rest of his domestic fleet out to other parts of the castle, or sent them on little information-gathering trips around town. He genuinely saw them so rarely that he had come to call them Number One, Two and Three, but only in his mind. As much fun as he had with Snitch’s nickname, reducing a man to a number was a step too far. This one was number three, and he had urgent news.

“A boar has arrived in the kitchens,” the man (number three) panted.

Hredon threw his bed covers off with a dramatic flourish, springing towards his wardrobe. “Say no more!”

***

A soldier he was not, but some of the finer aspects of naval training has not escaped Hredon. Mere minutes later, his polished shoes were making swift pace along the cobblestones of the servant’s corridors, hot on the heels of his servant guide. He burst through the kitchen doors to be met with the warm air of a workplace that was already gearing up for the breakfast, and a wonderful, glorious sight: a great, fat, boar, already gutted, skinned and hoisted up onto the chopping block.

“Magnificent,” he beamed, pacing closer to the raised eyebrows. “It looks fresh. You there,” he grabbed the shoulder of a burly man in a butcher’s apron. “I can instruct you how to cut this pig to achieve cuts of bacon that would rival Itallyon. And a fine leg of ham for the beautiful bastard that hunted this beast,” he added.

“I know how to butcher,” the man said gruffly, brushing him off.

“Then I will yield to your expertise,” Hredon said silkily. “Just please ensure a plate of bacon is delivered to my chambers with the utmost haste.”

“ _Not so fast_.”

Hredon gasped, wheeling around to find the King standing there in full hunting greens, a triumphant smirk on his face. 

“I knew you’d come,” the King smirked. 

“You!” Hredon cried. “I rescind my compliment! You’re not a beautiful bastard at all, you’re just garden variety!”

“And yet I hunted it all the same,” the King boasted. “And I believe it is Article of the Third that teaches that by right of the hunt, it is _I_ who will decide how the meat is used.”

“Impossible!” Hredon accused him. “You were in council meetings all day! You didn’t possibly have time to hunt a boar!”

“I hunted at night,” The King purred. “It will come as no surprise that my mastery of the battlefield extends to hunting game, even in darkness.”

“Villian!” Hredon stamped his foot, pointing a finger at Alistair. “You did this on purpose!”

“I most certainly did,” the King said, marching closer. With one hand folded behind his back, he raised the other and flicked Hredon on the nose. “Do not embarrass me in front of my generals again. Now, if you want your precious bacon, you’ll have to get it at a private luncheon with yours truly. In full formalwear,” he added, eyeing the Prince’s collar with some contempt. A poet’s shirt it was not, but it was still getting too low for his liking.

Hredon, his nose still smarting, regarding the man with the utmost disgust. Triumphs were always _insufferable_ when they weren’t his own. “So I am to be uncomfortable in every possibly way,” he groused.

“You are only as uncomfortable as you are undisciplined,” the King lectured, grabbing him by the shoulders and marching him towards the door. “Now go and dress. I need to oversee the butchering of _my_ pig.”

Oh, he was enjoying this _far_ too much.

***

Hredon was still seething on his way up to the King’s tower. Prim and proper from head to toe, with even the knots brushed out of his hair by a very insistent Watsen, who’d made him feel so much like a fussy cat, grooming him when he was in such a sour mood. He’d chosen a black Archaeon uniform with a silver trim to mark the occasion as a grim affair, and although the King would not see it underneath his military jacket, yes, he had eschewed a vest. So technically, full formalwear it was not. It was the only spite Hredon could think of in such dire circumstances.

This time, the guard at the door was very much expecting him, and he was ushered in without a fuss upon arrival. There, he found the little round table from before had been dressed in a burgundy table cloth and set with chairs and crockery. Crockery for one, he noted. Come to think of it, he had yet to witness the King actually eat anything at all, and it was beginning to gnaw at him.

“So nice of you to join me,” the King greeted him, pouring wine at a bar cart and evidently still rubbing in his morning’s victory. “Wine?”

“Yes,” Hredon said stiffly, “a lot.” He took the full glass proffered, draining a good third of it in one gulp. He inhaled deeply as the swoon of the liquor gave his head a moment’s pause.

“Careful, now,” the King chided him. “I imagine you’ll want to leave room for the main course.”

“If there is anything other than bacon underneath that serving dish, I will ransack this room in such a way that you’ll think the boar came alive and tore it up himself,” Hredon told him, with an oddly sober expression. My, but he did _sulk_ after losing. He knew it, too, but the awareness didn’t do aften to stop the momentum of his behaviour.

“It’s bacon,” the King promised patiently. “I am not such a… how did you put it? ‘Garden variety bastard’, I think.”

Immediately suspicious, Hredon polished off the rest of his wine and set down the glass, striding towards the table. He whipped off the serving dish cover to reveal… sandwiches. Buttered, no less: he could see the yellow in places where the bread had bubbled. He could feel his mouth begin to water just from looking at them, but he could hardly believe that the King would understand his preferences so perfectly. “How did you know?” he asked in wonder.

“You are not the only one who can gather intelligence,” Alistair drawled. “I’ve been writing to your father. Several times, in fact, asking for advice on how to manage your bad temper.”

Hredon laughed, pulling back his chair and taking a seat. “‘Bad’ is an understatement,” he said wickedly, using a serving knife to lift a sandwich onto his plate. “I went through no less than six nannies after my mother passed. It was my father who figured out how to bribe me with breakfast food.”

“Yes. Imagine a child who lives by the sea, who won’t eat fish,” the King remarked incredulously.

“Hate the stuff.”

“I suppose lobster is off the menu for the wedding.”

“Quite.” Hredon ached to used his hands to eat, to feel the warmth of the freshly-baked bread under his fingers as he ate, but he thought better of it, considering present company. With a sigh, he picked up his knife and fork and cut himself a piece of sandwich like a civilised adult. “A twilight ceremony, wasn’t it? That’s just fine by me. I’ll send word for the tailors in Archaeon to make me a suit in white and they can send it over with my father’s convoy. That way, no one will miss me in the shadows.”

“Even then, I would still see you,” Alistair informed him neatly, taking a seat opposite.

“Ah yes, mister night hunter, who’s so aloof he doesn’t even partake in his kills,” Hredon drawled, peering at the man. “Why don’t you eat?”

“I did eat, before dawn.”

“Are you some kind of monk?”

Alistair snorted. “Hardly. I think even you might be more religious than me.”

“Hrmph.” Hredon cut the topic short by chewing his first mouthful. Gamier than your common bacon, yes, but perfectly buttered and salted, still. He groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting the flavours meld over his tongue. It had been far too long. “God, yes,” he gasped, cutting another piece. “Fantastic.”

“Try not to get too aroused,” the King remarked, wine glass hovering in his grip as he stared.

“Shut up,” Hredon countered lazily, now much more focused on eating. He didn’t stop until his plate was clean, reaching for the serving knife again with a satisfied hum. “Any kind of ceremony suits me fine,” he yielded. “Hunt me another boar for the wedding feast and I’ll even make a toast in your honour.”

“If only one could bottle this kind of compliance,” the King sighed. “I suppose this is close enough.”

Looking up from cutting his second sandwich, Hredon saw the King produce a small vial from his breast pocket, the label stamped with the same snake and eye emblem from the apothecary. At least, he thought it was. It was hard to tell, for his vision was rapidly becoming blurred.

“What--” The word was slurred, and the knife fell from his hand even though he was sure he meant to keep holding it. Then, too, the rest of his muscles fell slack. His cheek hit the table cloth, and then, darkness.

***

Hredon awoke with aching knees, for he was kneeling on the ground. His face, however, was in a state of some comfort: it would appear that his limp body had been moved to the edge of the King’s bed. He recognised the black silk sheets. Trying to use his hands to push himself up, he found them shackled behind his back. Treachery! The bacon of deceit! It had to be the bacon, he knew, for they had both drunk the wine.

“It was the butter,” Alistair chimed in, watching the thoughts race through the Prince’s mind, showing on his face with minute trembles in his expression.

Hredon looked up to find King Alistair sitting beside him, sipping another glass of merlot. “Untie me,” he demanded.

“One doesn’t untie chains.”

Chains, yes: he could feel the metal now. That was a problem. Rope or cloth could have been burned through easily, but melting steel was beyond him. In fact, using his powers in any way with metal so close to his skin was ill-advised: the flames didn’t hurt him, yes, but once their heat transferred to another object, it became something not his own, and that could burn him. This was one of many lessons he had learned whilst training under the Order of the Hand. 

“You’re angry. That is to be expected,” the King drawled. Parting his thighs, he shifted in front of the Prince, bringing his feet around the small of the man’s back and locking him in close. “I did much the same in Tarriket, with the addition of a blindfold. I spared you that element.”

Despite his anger, Hredon felt a chill. He had met the Tsar of Tarriket, and he could not imagine such an arrogant man in such a humiliating position. And then he could, and the thought of being cast in the same lot redoubled his fury. Throwing his head back, he tried his best to slam his forehead into the man’s groin, but he was stopped. Pale fingers gripped the roots of his hair tightly and the King pulled him up by his fringe. The indignity of it! Hredon’s blue eye, so accustomed to a thick veil of hair, stung with the sudden light exposure.

“It would seem I’m not the only one with a mutation,” Alistair noted dryly.

“Fuck you,” Hredon spat, feeling exposed. “You think this will achieve obedience?!”

“At the very least, it will remind you of your place,” the King hissed, squeezing the man’s sides with his knees. “Ever since you arrived, you’ve shown nothing but contempt for my authority.”

“ _Because I hate you!_ ” Hredon screamed. Getting his feet under him, he pushed himself bodily upwards, the sheer surprise of it pushing Alistair back onto the mattress. Only the King’s grip on the Prince’s hair saved him from receiving a broken nose. Lying on to of the man with a face full of silk sheets, Hredon twisted his head to one side to take breath and keep yelling. “I hate you, of course I _hate_ you! How _dare_ you! You took my life so easily I might as well have been livestock!”

“Your _life_?” The King roared, flipping the pair of them over and pinning the whelp by the shoulders. “You should be grateful! I could have crushed that city as easily as any other, instead you’re marrying the powerful man in the land!”

“It is _you_ who should be grateful to _me_ ,” the Prince argued, shaking. Angry tears welled in his eyes. “It was me: I held that choice in my hands. I carried that burden.”

“Exactly! You _chose_ this!”

“You don’t know what I chose!” Hredon screamed. “You think Archaeon would have handed over the warships if the city fell? We would have _scuttled_ that navy before you could have it. Every single ship at the bottom of the ocean before you could do a single thing about it!”

King Alistair’s hands were around the Prince’s throat before he fully realised what he was doing. His fingers squeezed once, briefly, before he forced himself to stop even though every fibre of his being screamed in outrage at the hypothetical loss of his war prize. The ships were invaluable. They were more necessary than Hredon could possibly imagine.

“Do it,” Hredon dared him in a whisper. “I would love to wear the bruises around town. I would love to see them talk.”

Alistair punched the mattress beside Hredon’s head, turning away with a clenched jaw. “I had thought,” he said finally, voice dangerously measured, “that you were smart enough to realise the good fortune of your position.”

“On the day you made the offer,” Hredon recounted, looking harrowed, “my father took me to the docks where one of our finest warships was waiting. He told me to light the gunpowder myself if I would refuse.” And what a hopelessly horrible decision it had been: how could anyone, of any station, possibly refuse to sacrifice their one, single life and instead see the entire legacy of their people sink to the depths?

Even the King was shaken by such a prospect. He took his hands away from Hredon’s throat with a shudder, losing his taste for the violence. “I see the tenacity runs in the family,” he commented, disturbed.

“Quite.” Hredon sniffed. 

“What do you want?” Alistair asked him wearily. “What will it take to bring you to heel, so you don’t cause outrage everywhere you go?”

Hredon barely even had to think. “Bacon, liberty, and companionship,” he answered. All the things he had back home, more or less.

“I can’t…” Alistair faltered, for the fight had caused the Prince’s shirt to pull away from his belt, and his navel was exposed. He looked away uncomfortably. “We’re not married yet.”

“Not _that_ ,” Hredon spat, looking up at the man indignantly. “I want my friend. I want Finnian. Not just visiting, but at my wedding, too.”

“He's a whore!” Alistair protested.

“He's my oldest friend. If you can't give me that, then you might as well keep me shackled forever, you hideous tyrant.”

“I am not hideous.” Alistair narrowed his eyes.

“Heinous, then.” Hredon bickered, letting his cheek flop back against the silk sheets. “What does it matter?”

King Alistair sighed and climbed off the bed. “I will consider it,” he told him, walking towards some shelves.

Hredon frowned, rolling onto his stomach so the King could uncuff him all the more easily. What he did not expect, however, was for the man to return with a handkerchief. He tensed as the cloth wiped at the tears on his cheeks, blanching away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t be such a child,” Alistair clicked his tongue, insistently dabbing at the man’s eyes. The fringe got in the way far more than he would have liked. “Why do you have this ridiculous hairstyle? Your eyes aren’t _red_ , for god’s sake. Just cut it.”

“They’re unusual enough to warrant staring,” Hredon sulked. “I’d much rather be left in peace.”

“You are the least peaceful man I have ever met,” Alistair told him. He didn’t stop his work until the Prince’s petulant face was dry. Only then did he take the key from his pockets and unlock the shackles on Hredon’s wrists. He watched as the man sprang free, backing away from him like some kind of wild animal.

“I will have a fresh plate of bacon sandwiches, sans butter, delivered to your rooms.”

“I want butter,” Hredon said quickly, tucking in his shirt.

“Then I will ask for a fresh pat of butter, free of any tonics or additives. Will that appease you?”

“No,” Hredon said, already starting towards the door with a wary stare. “You know what I want.”


	8. Rappel without a Cause

It had been a tense few days, and Hredon had barely strayed from his chambers, except to visit the latrines and the library, respectively. These measures came instinctively, though he rather wished they wouldn’t, for it suggested that Alistair’s beastly behaviour had had an effect on him. And it had, but he didn’t want the King to know that. Yet at the same time, he wasn’t sure how to make sure the man didn’t know such a thing. He hadn’t been called on nor summoned to any meetings: he suspected the brute was enjoying the peace and quiet. Bastard.

The bacon was his only comfort: Alistair had made good on his promise about the butchering of the boar, and a heavy breakfast as his sole meal of the day become the norm once more. This allowed him to settle into something resembling a routine, and he slept better, and even found his skin looking less sallow. As soon as the old crone’s cream had taken its full effect, he wore his beloved poet’s shirts once more. He was just in the act of placing his mother’s crucifix around his neck when Watsen arrived with a letter.

“It’s been inspected, of course,” Watsen delivered the news gingerly, passing the envelope to his master.

“Of course,” Hredon sighed, looking over the broken seal. “No matter: Finnian is very clever. He would never write anything damning.” He opened up the letter and read:

_ To His Royal Highness Hredon P. Archaeon - _

_ P! Missing you dearly. Business is good. No sight of that hand cream you were after, I’m afraid. You’d best try your luck at the Apothecary. Do come again soon for tea, but try not to bring your betrothed. The guards broke one of the door hinges. _

_ All the best, _ _   
_ _ F _

“The apothecary.” Hredon lifted his head with a frown. Of course. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He’d bet his first pig that old Attie herself had magic - it would explain why her wares worked so well, to boot. Not that he’d ever heard of a magic that involved making tonics and the like - until now, he’d assumed the craft was all strictly scientific, or perhaps a little alchemical. Magic seemed to be more along the lines of conjuring something from nothing, like his fire, or Finnian’s lights. But he conceded that he was young, and there could very well be other types of magic in the world that he was not privy to.

“I need to go to the apothecary,” he announced to his servants, folding up the letter.

“Again, so soon, m’lord?” Watsen asked, looking uneasy. “I’m not sure his Majesty will grant permission for it. He may just tell you to send one of us on an errand.”

“Then I will not ask.” Hredon scowled, marching towards his suitcase.

***

“Are you sure this is wise, m’lord?” Erikson worried.

It was nightfall, and all three men were standing on the small, rounded balcony outside Hredon’s bedroom window. Hredon in particular was dressed head to toe in pitch black, including a pair of leather gloves. Said balcony was fitted with very sturdy, carved stone railings, which was a matter of grave importance.

“Stop  _ fussing _ , Snitch,” Hredon chided him, tying off another knot. “I have done this a  _ thousand  _ times. Now, come closer.” He pointed out a loop in one of the knots. “Once I’m free at the bottom, and you’ll know because the rope will go slack, you’ll pull this part here to loosen the not, and pull the whole length back up. I want it re-wound and stashed away in one of my suitcases before the guards even suspect a thing.”

“And if you fall to your death, m’lord?” Erikson asked, looking queasy.

“I will not.” Hredon sighed, looking to Watsen for support, though the blond man didn’t look in much better condition than his brunet counterpart. 

“And what will you do once you’re on the ground, m’lord?” Watsen asked, face pale. “There’s still the patrols to consider.”

“Please,” Hredon scoffed. “I’ve been sneaking a lot more than either of you give me credit for. Don’t worry about me - I’ll get back in through one of the servant’s passages. Just worry about this rope - I’d hate for it to be confiscated, the ones round here are as thick as bloody pythons, and far too difficult to grip.

“... If you insist, m’lord,” Watsen yielded.

“I always do.”

Without further ado, the Prince fed the end of the rope through a metal loop in his belt and sent the length of it over the edge of the balcony. Peering over the edge, he saw no sign of any guards below, so he grabbed the rope, and climbed over the railing. It was a short, sudden drop to clear the balcony’s overhang, and from there he could swing down to gain leverage with his own two feet against the castle wall. Then, it was simply a matter of feeding rope through his belt loop in slow, careful bursts, allowing him to rappel down the side of the building at a much safer speed than simply plummeting to his death.

He arrived on the ground with bated breath and hastily freed himself from the rope just in time to sink into the bushes along the castle wall as a patrol of two guards passed by. Being sure to breath calmly and evenly through his nose, he looked up to see the rope slithering upwards as Watsen and Snitch pulled it back up to the balcony. The guards didn’t seem to notice a thing. Once they were gone, he walked, not ran, across the dark stretch of courtyard and used the mortar cracks of the garden wall to scale it, dropping over the other side.

***

The streets of Daeraedmore, as little as he had seen of them, were different at night. Unlike the interior of the palace, where lanterns were in abundance, street lamps did not seem to be common, and it appeared that most of the townspeople preferred to stay inside after dark. This suited Hredon just fine, for he’d rather keep a low profile when he was breaking his own curfew. 

Much like the apothecary didn’t have a name, it also didn’t have signage listing its opening hours. Hredon tested the front door and found it open, so he pushed his way inside to the chime of a small doorbell that announced his arrival. “Hello?” he called uncertainly.

“Oh?” the eldery woman’s voice called through the dimly-lit shop. “Who is visiting old Attie at this hour? Come closer, child.”

Hredon ventured further into the apothecary, to find the source of light being numerous lanterns set up in the workspace behind the counter. The little old witch was working over a small cauldron set up on the counter top next to a green-stained cutting board.

“Ah, yes,” the woman smiled, still stirring her brew. “Old Attie sees you. Have you come for eyedrops of your own? Or more cream, already?”

“No,” Hredon said, walking around the counter. “I was wondering… well,” he paused, for once at a loss for words. It was always a difficult subject to broach, magic using. Back home, most were feared - freaks of nature at best or dangerous servants of the devil at worst, depending on which rumours you believed. Every single member of the Order of the Hand kept their identity a secret from the outside world, Hredon included. It was not an ability one mentioned casually.

Attie gave a slow, quiet laugh, lifting a spatula to scrape off a green foam from her latest concoction. With that done, she capped the cauldron and snuffed the flame beneath it, leaving it to simmer. “Old Attie  _ sees  _ you, my dear,” she said, her emphasis giving the word some second meaning. She finally turned, looking up at the man with her one good eye. “Have you come looking for more friends, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Hredon sighed. He felt embarrassed, though he had no idea why. Perhaps it was simply a misplaced feeling of incompetency, being in a strange, new place. “It can be lonely,” he admitted, choosing his words carefully, “being like us.”

“Quite true, quite true…” Attie gave a thin smile as she pottered over to a kettle on another bench. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” Hredon smiled. A nice cup of tea would make this whole thing less awkward. “Your cream works very well,” he added.

“It always does,” Attie chimed with a knowing little grin.

“Is it magic?”

“A little, a little,” the woman explained as she set about making a pot of tea. “Attie sees the way things should be put together to make them work. And a few other things, too. And you, dear?” she asked as she left the kettle to boil. “What do you see?”

“I don’t really see anything,” Hredon said with a furrow in his brow. “It’s more of a conjuring sort of thing, see?” He took a seat on one of the stools by the counter and upturned his hand, producing a merry little flame in the centre of his hand. He extinguished it after only a moment, for lighting spontaneously fires in stranger’s homes always struck him as a little rude, and not rude in the way that he enjoyed being rude.

“ _ Ah _ ,” the old woman’s face was briefly illuminated by keen interest, leaning closer to the marvel. “A Maker. We have not seen a Maker for many years. The mountain air… it makes us more inclined to See, than Make, we think. You see?”

“I think so…” Hredon mused out loud. Now that he thought about it, most of the Order of the Hand were Archaeon-born, and most of them made some sort of element in one way or another. He’d assumed that was simply the way that all magic was, but it stood to reason that variances could be geographically based. He left the thought for the moment and circled back to Attie’s use of the word ‘we’. “Are there more of you?” he asked.

“Just a few,” Attie smiled, climbing up onto a stool of her own. “Very few. Just eight, I believe, although some of us do wander…”

That was few. The Order had at least three times as many members, and Archaeon was a smaller city than Daeraedmore. Either magic was rarer here, or its users were much less social. “I don’t suppose there’s room for a ninth?” he asked with what he hoped was a charming grin.

Attie chuckled. “Perhaps there is no need for that, my dear,” she said. “Your presence here is enough. There are things coming to pass that have been in motion for an entire age.”

“What do you mean?” Hredon frowned. It was no small statement that the witch was making. “Do you mean the empire?” Well, Daeraedmore wasn’t officially an empire yet, strictly speaking, but it was well on the path to getting there.

“Yes, but especially the Fool’s Marriage,” Attie said, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. “Very important, very important…” The kettle had begun to whistle, so she excused herself to set about pouring some cups. 

Hredon decided it would be best to hold his tongue, for he still schemed, on occasion, of ways to weasel out of said Fool’s Marriage so he could go back to his merry bachelor’s life by the seaside. Even he could recognise when he was being naive, however: he was a Prince, and until recently, he’d been a Crown Prince, at that. He was always destined to marry  _ someone _ , but he took umbrage with the fact that it should be such a bastard.

“This group of friends,” he spoke up, leaning one of his elbows on the counter as he watched Attie work. “Do you have a name?”

“No name!” the witch called back brightly. She bustled back with a small, round tray bearing two steaming, roughly-crafted cups. Hredon took one and held it a while, neglecting to take a sip while the tea was still boiling hot. “Only a symbol… I’m sure you know it,” she chuckled, taking a noisy slurp.

“The snake and the eye?” Hredon guessed the obvious answer. Glancing to his right, he could see shelves stacked full of vials and other vessels stamped with the apothecary’s emblem.

“The eye, yes… but the snake, the snake is  _ everything _ ,” Attie purred. “The beginning, the middle and end. And we are shepherds, we magic few… to keep the slithering on the right path.”

“I see,” Hredon answered, but truthfully, he didn’t. The madness of old age was nothing new to him, but it was particularly puzzling when compounded with existential riddles. Still, he didn’t want to be rude. The tea was chamomile; he could smell it. Appropriate for the evening hour. He took a sip and confessed: “Some of this may be over my head, I’m afraid. I was more looking for somewhere safe to practice my craft, without risk of being discovered, or hurting anyone.”

“Such places do exist,” Attie said cryptically, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “The woods, for one. But you would not be alone. There are things that hunt in the mountains. Cross their path at the wrong hour, and you may just find yourself in peril.”

Hredon raised his eyebrows. “I have never,” he told the woman confidently, “been in peril.”

“Oh, to be young!” the old woman chortled. “Very well, little flame: no peril for you. But you would be wise to be wary, all the same. As you say, the world is a lonely place, and even not-peril can feel like peril, in the right circumstances.”

“It’s late,” Hredon announced, because it was, but also because Attie’s words were beginning to get uncomfortable as well as confusing. He set his teacup down, half-drained, and rose to his feet. “I’m sorry to have called at such an hour, but I’m afraid it was the only way I could get out of the castle without an escort. I’ll leave you to your business. Thank you for the tea, and the words of wisdom.”

“Any time, dear, any time. Feel free to call again,” Attie said with a toothy grin.

***

Hredon found his way back into the castle through the servant’s passages, exactly as he had planned. It had cost him a gold coin to bribe the surly butcher in the kitchens, but that was a small price to pay, particularly when he wanted to keep the man in good humour for other, bacon-related reasons, anyway. 

When he crept up the stairs towards his chambers, however, he suffered small heart attack to find none other than King Alistair outside his bedroom door, with a frown on his face. He watched as the long-haired man knocked on the door again, impatiently, suggesting that he’d been kept waiting. Hredon had no doubt that his two servants were cowering inside, too afraid to answer when Hredon wasn’t there. 

“Your Majesty?” he called, coming up the rest of the stairs.

The King startled, turning to face the Prince in the corridor. “Hredon? What are you doing out of your rooms at this hour?”

“I was down in the kitchens,” he half-lied effortlessly. “Being confined works up quite an appetite, I’ve found.”

“Yes,” Alistair said stiffly, glancing away. “About that. I have a present for you.”

Hredon walked closer, peering at the roll of papers the King held in one hand. “What is it?”

“A dispensation,” Alistair said, offering the tube to Hredon. “Two, in fact. The first allows you to leave the castle unescorted, and the second allows the… friend, of yours, to visit, although you’ll have to get him to write in his full name.”

“Interesting.” Hredon took the documents swiftly, cracking the wax seal and rifling through the curved parchment. He had to hold the papers terribly close in the corridor light without his reading glasses, but he could confirm that the dispensations were exactly as the King claimed, without any nasty fine print. It would appear that the brute had finally come to his senses - perhaps he had used the peace and quiet to come to a conclusion about what was best for him. Bacon, liberty and companionship.

“Very good,” Hredon said succinctly, tucking the papers under his arm. “Good night, your Majesty.” He brushed past the man on his way to the door, and the King sniffed, catching the smell of the night on Hredon’s clothes.

“You weren’t in the kitchens at all, were you?” Alistair asked, bemused. It was a wild notion, god only knew how the man had managed to get out, but he was sure of it. 

Hredon paused, his fingers hovering above the door knob. He retracted his hand and turned, facing the King with a neutral expression. “Does it matter?” he asked, stepping closer.

“No…” the King mused, blinking back at those staring, mismatched eyes. “No, I suppose not.”

“Good.” After another beat, Hredon leaned up and kissed the man on the cheek. “Good night, Alistair.” He turned and opened his door a crack. Before he stepped inside, he looked over his shoulder. “And Alistair?”

“Yes?”

“Schedule a private meeting to discuss wedding preparations,” Hredon told him coolly. “I won’t be kept aside.”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Attie the Eye  
> SPECIES: Human (Magic user - Seer)  
> AGE: 81  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 4’8"; wiry build, hunched posture.   
> FACE: One green eye with a sever cataract, one brown eye; thinning eyebrows; thin nose; wide mouth; jowly cheeks. Clear but wrinkled complexion; fond of dark lip paint in the evenings.   
> HAIR: Long, curly white hair typically held back in a plaited bun.   
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos or notable scars. Many golden studs in the cartilage each ear and two heavy hoops in each ear lobe.   
> OCCUPATION: Owner of the Apothecary


	9. The Gossiping of the Grain

Just two mornings later, Hredon was in the grand hall in his finest casual wear, his mother’s crucifix on full show in the low, v-shaped neckline of his silk shirt. So fine was the tailoring and quality of cloth used to make said casual wear, in fact, that it rivalled some of his finest suits. These were some of the luxuries he could afford as a Prince. In addition to these clothes, he wore something which had seldom yet been seen in the halls of Daeraedmore castle: a smile. A smile which only widened when a certain redhead made his way up the steps.

“Finnian!” He ran up to him like a child. It took some heft, but he was able to lift the man off his feet in a hug. He stepped back to regard his friend’s emerald-green suit with mother-of-pearl buttons. “I half expected you to turn up in a dress,” he confessed.

“Ha! Not likely,” Finnian chortled, clutching at his soft belly through his vest. “The boudoir fare is all good fun, but have you ever worn a corset? Madame Rosalie dressed me in one as a joke once, and it was  _ dreadful _ .” 

By this point, they were already beginning to attract attention in hall, possibly because their apparent joy was so contrary to the typical mood within the castle.

“Come on,” Hredon said, grabbing his friend’s hand. “I’ve had them set up tea in the rose garden.”

“Whoever thought that Dreadmore castle had a rose garden?” Finnian remarked, letting himself be dragged along. “Or is it entirely thorns?”

“I know,” Hredon chuckled. Truth be told, he hadn’t known himself, until he’d asked around with his servants. He’d spent so much time cooped up in his chambers or poring over book sin the library that he’d never really explored the grounds. “In fact, you can see where we’re going to hold the ceremony.”

The garden, previously only known to Hredon in the form of a crude map drawing, was actually quite lovely. The gazebo where their tea had been served was flanked by garden beds that were simply bursting with rosebushes bearing bright red blooms. The entire courtyard was enclosed by other parts of the castle, but it was certainly big enough to host a wedding. If one ventured through the gazebo and onto the green, it was a long stretch to reach the focal point of the garden: a massive old oak tree. Judging by the men with ladders who were pruning said oak tree, early preparations for the wedding ceremony were already underway.

“Is this where the ceremony will take place?” Finnian asked, taking a seat at the white-clothed table. He was referring not to the garden as a whole, but rather, the gazebo itself.

“I don’t think so,” Hredon said. “Or at least, if that’s what they’re planning, I’ll make them change it. This is much better as an entry point. Then we can walk the aisle and get married underneath that tree,” he pointed. 

Finnian leaned in his seat to see. “I am told there will be lanterns,” Hredon added, watching his friend’s expression light up as he imagined the spectacle. If anyone could envision lanterns, it was Finnian.

“How pretty!” Finnian remarked. He sighed and imagined it a little longer before he turned his attention to the teapot, pouring them a steaming cup each. “It’s nice to be taking tea outside the brothel. Dreadmore’s not exactly known for its teahouses.” 

“Yes, well,” Hredon sniffed, selecting a finger sandwich. “If I’m to be so proper as to not set foot in a brothel, it should only follow that you be allowed to visit the castle.”

“You wore him down, didn’t you?” Finnian said with an impish smile.

“Yes. It was no small feat.”

“I’m surprised it took you over a week,” Finnian said earnestly. “He really must have an iron spine.” Sipping his tea, he raised his eyebrows and none other that the King himself walked down the adjacent passage, a red cloak trailing behind him. After the cloak, a dozen or so decorated generals were hot on his heels.

Hredon groaned. “There he goes. Off to plan his wars before the terrible inconvenience of our wedding slows him down by a single day, I expect.”

“He’s rather handsome when he’s not potentially going to have me killed for adultery,” Finnian confessed, giggling.   
  
“It’s not adultery if we’re not yet married,” Hredon snipped, taking a frustrated bite out of his miniature bacon sandwich as he watched the King disappear around a corner in the distance. “God!” he threw his head back with a groan. “Maybe if I said you were an arms dealer, he’d have blessed our tea party instead. He’s been holed up with his crusty generals discussing his precious attack on Pradstan. I can barely get him for a moment to discuss the wedding plans.”

“ _ Pradstan _ ?” Finnian pulled a face. “That’s miles away. I haven’t even heard its name since you read that horrible, boring book.”

“What book?” Hredon frowned. “I’ve certainly never read any books about Pradstan.”

“No, it was about wheat or something. Even after you set the bar so low, it might have been the most boring thing you ever read. You read me a passage from it and it just about put me to sleep!”

Hredon leaned back in his seat, scratching his chin. It was a big ask, to remember one specific boring book: he’d read many in his life. 

“The running of the grain, I think it was,” Finnian tried to jog his memory.

Hredon snapped his fingers. “ _ The Flowing of the Grain _ ,” he said. It was all starting to come back to him, like so much grain. “God, that  _ was  _ a boring read,” he chortled. “I can’t remember his name, but the poor sod who wrote it must have traipsed round the entire continent to document the supply and sale of wheat. And he wrote about it as if it were meant to be so  _ riveting _ .”

“ _ But the only place where the grain stands still is Pradstan _ ,” Finnian recounted, going gog-eyed. “Something, something, blah blah blah,  _ export is nought _ .”

Hredon snorted. “Is that really a fond memory of yours?” he asked incredulously, wiping the corner of his eye.

“It’s stuff like this, and swimming in Green Bay,” Finnian shrugged, taking another sip of tea. “I was too fat to go on your climbing adventures.”

“I miss Green Bay,” Hredon sighed, picking up his cup. “There’s nowhere to swim around here. Perhaps I can convince my beloved to take over a neighbouring territory with lots of lakes.”

“He probably already has,” Finnian said earnestly. “You should ask.”

“Mm,” Hredon hummed, sipping his tea. His eyes drifted back over to the old oak tree as his mind wandered. He opened his eyes fully when a sudden thought occurred to him. “Shit.”

“What?” Finnian asked with a frown. “Have you forgotten something?”

“No, I’ve remembered,” Hredon sighed, setting his cup back in his saucer. “Come on, we need to go to the library.”

***

“My god!” Finnian exclaimed, staring gog-eyed at the shelves and shelves of books that seemed to stretch on and on, “It’s twice the size of the library back home!”

“Yes, well,” Hredon sniffed, rifling through index cards in a set of tiny drawers. “Don’t get too excited. The castle is thrice the size of Archaeon’s, but the library has not expanded proportionately. I’ve no doubt that the crown received a copy of  _ The Flowing of the Grain _ , the real worry is whether or not Dreadmore bothered archiving theirs.”

“Awfully rude not to,” the redhead remarked, leaning around Hredon’s shoulder.

“I don’t think this is the sort of country too concerned with the finer aspects of diplomacy,” Hredon said. He snapped his fingers as he came across the right index card.  _ The Flowing of the Grain _ , by one Derry C. Ploughman. “Right! Here’s hoping. Follow me,” he said, taking the card and leading Finnian down the rows of shelves.

***

An hour or so later, the King’s council chamber doors were once again burst open by Hredon’s well-polished boots. Despite the common occurrence, it did not fail to startle as the Archaeon Prince strode into the room with his red-headed sidekick following half-heartedly behind him.

“Pradstan,” Hredon announced, slapping the copy of  _ The Flowing of the Grain _ down on the table before the room of men, “is an oligarchy.”

“A profound revelation,” Alistair said dryly, giving Hredon a withering look. His eyes briefly flicked to Finnian, who was still milling by the door. “I had thought you’d be more occupied these days, and less prone to dramatic interruptions.”

“Think again,” Hredon dismissed him, tapping the book. “When you say you march on Pradstan, I assume you mean Greater Pradstan, yes? That big, pretty city where the oligarchy resides?”

“Well, yes,” Gallagher spoke up, clearing his throat. “That’s where all the power is. Take Greater Pradstan, and Lesser Pradstan comes with it.”

“Wrong,” Hredon countered, turning to Wilsson. “In fact, you’re more wrong than you could possibly imagine. You said they could weather siege for months? Try  _ years _ . The fields of Lesser Pradstan yield as much grain as Itallyon, yet they export  _ none  _ of it. It’s stockpiled in silos across the countryside, to prevent losing the lot if one should be set alight or infested by rats.”

“We should take Lesser Pradstan to cut off their food supply,” King Alistair cottoned on.

“With all due respect, sire, we  _ can’t  _ take Lesser Pradstan before Greater Pradstan falls. There’s no way to get to it.” Wilsson protested.

“By land,” Hredon said.

“The warships,” Alistair’s eyes lit up.

“The north eastern coast is a death trap!” Wilsson protested. “Lesser Pradstan is entirely flanked by impassable mountains and a reef like teeth. Greater Pradstan is the only way through!”

“Derry C. Ploughman had exactly the same problem,” Hredon said with a smile.

“Who?”

“The man who wrote this book,” the Prince explained neatly, licking his finger to flick through the pages. “The Pradstan elite laughed him away at the gate when he described his studies. Yet so committed to the grain was he, that he bought passage with smugglers and sailed round to Wasp Point. The most northeastern land this side of the Titan Ranges.”

The revelation caused some excited murmuring amongst the old men. The King himself looked as though Hredon had just delivered words directly from the gods. “This point,” he said urgently. “How wide is it? Could an army land there?”

“I don’t know,” Hredon admitted. “It wasn’t in Ploughman’s nature to make military observations.”

“Send a scout ship,” Alistair said immediately, turning to one of his generals. “We’ve got time. I want a full report as soon as possible.”

***

“Well, well, well,” Alistair remarked. It was a while later, and the two younger men had retreated back to their tea party. Once the necessary paperwork was signed to carry out his plans, the King had stopped by on his way back to his chambers. He stood before the table and looked between the two men, still harbouring a small measure of disbelief.

“You’re welcome,” Hredon said airly, flicking pastry crumbs from his fingers. He had just bitten into a strawberry tart. “You can thank Finnian, too. He’s the one who remembered, not me.”

“Hello,” Finnian said sweetly, looking particularly round with his feet tucked underneath him on the chair. “It’s nice to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, as much as that surprises me.” Alistair said. After a moment’s pause, he managed a small smile. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Would you like to join us?” Finnian asked. “Hredon’s been dying to talk to you.”

Alistair glanced at Hredon, his disbelief intensifying. The Archaeon Prince was suddenly doing a very good job of avoiding all eye contact as he chewed. “Erm, I’m afraid not,” he said, looking away. “I need to find Hilda.”

“Who? The nanny?” Finnian asked. Hredon almost choked on his remaining strawberry tart.

Alistair blinked. “Hilda? No, she’s an attendant. She’s sewing my wedding cloak. If you’ll excuse me,” he awkwardly took his leave.

Even though the King was some distance away, his hearing was sharp enough to catch the Prince’s wheezing words at the end of his coughing fit.

  
“Why the  _ hell  _ did you tell him that?!”


	10. Suit Tidings

“That was far too quick, Watsen,” Hredon scolded his bootler. “Go back and do it again.”

“As you wish, m’lord.” The blond turned back to the washbasin and took up the bar of soap again. The pair of them were in the building that housed the latrines, and Watsen found it particularly unnerving to be relieving himself in such close proximity to his master, especially when his Highness was so exacting about standards of hygiene. He continued to later his hands and rub vigorously between his fingers and both sides of his palms for at least a full minute. “Better, m’lord?”

“Yes, quite. Now rinse.” Hredon said. “The only sort of people worth knowing are the ones who wash their hands thoroughly,” he announced, with a pointed stare at the room’s fourth wall. “Remember that.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Hredon eased the latrines door open with the toe of his well-polished boot, and slipped outside into the fresh morning air. Or as fresh as the air could be when one was standing outside the latrines. Truthfully, it wasn’t  _ so _ terrible thanks to the installation of turning pans. Growing up, he’d experienced drop pits around Green Bay with a stench so powerful that it could turn even him away from his bacon. Once Watsen followed him through the door, he didn’t dally: he set off on the winding path around the green.

“Has m’lord developed a sudden enthusiasm for morning exercise?” Watsen asked, jogging slightly behind the Prince in order to keep up with his long strides. “I did think you were more nocturnal.”   
  
“One could say that,” Hredon said with false piety, his eyes turning up towards the castle as they began to round on the castle’s eastern annex. He scowled when the tower housing the King’s chambers came into view: not because of their nature of housing the King, per se, but because the exterior walls had been rendered smooth. “Bugger,” he swore. All his plans dashed and he’s scarcely just had breakfast.

“What are you planning?” Watsen asked suspiciously, dropping all pretense. He’d found, as of late, that he could do so without much fear of discipline, provided the Prince was in a certain kind of mood.

“Well, I’ll have to plan something new, now,” Hredon huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets and kicking up dirt with his foot. His walking pace slowed into something much more manageable now that the jig was up. He’d climbed many walls, but without handholds between the bricks, it was impossible. “I’ll never get up to the King’s rooms by climbing.”

“One would thing you wouldn’t need a ruse to enter the King’s rooms,” Watsen pointed out. “In a week or so, you’ll be living in them.”

“Yes, but I want it  _ now _ ,’ Hredon whined, clicking his tongue.

“M’lord?” Watsen asked, a worried furrow forming on his brow.

Hredon huffed, adjusting his pace to come in closer to his servant’s side. “I have it on very good authority,” he said, keeping his voice low, “that his Majesty keeps a  _ journal.  _ Having made such an impression, there’s no question that I feature in its most recent pages. I must have it. If I don’t find out what it says about me, I’ll simply die.”

Watsen sighed. He knew better than to argue the sensibility of the thing, by now. “That guard, Leif, surely has your number by now, m’lord,” he reminded the Prince. “You’ll not get in the normal way, either.”

“Yes,” Hredon grumbled. He was well aware of that. Even more infuriating was the fact that presently, he couldn’t think of any other alternative. His only option seemed to be to sulk. “Come on,” he sighed. “Let’s head back. If I can’t scheme, I might as well see if the post’s come in. I’m expecting word from father any day now.”

***

Upon returning to his rooms, Hredon was delighted to discover an envelope in his in-tray that was sealed with the Archaeon crest. “Ah!” he beamed, wasting no time in cracking it open (and it did feel good to be the one cracking the seal, when it was only so recently he had to tolerate his correspondence being under surveillance). 

_ Philaemon _ , it read.

_ We sail for Portsmouth at weeks’ end. Your wedding suit is almost complete - traditional tailoring in our finest white cloth, with mother of pearl buttons. I trust your measurements have not increased with your confinement. We have had additional buttons made, should His Majesty like to incorporate them. I have enclosed a notice for his tailor.  _

_ Do not anger the King further until your union is sealed. _

_ Father _

With no one about to scold him for doing so, Hredon freely rolled his eyes. As straightforward as always, his father. The notice for the tailor had just as many words, if not more. Still, the trick was in the details, with his father’s love: mother of pearl was the perfect touch of home, and against white cloth, it would look very elegant indeed. Against black, too, it could look striking. At least, he assumed His Majesty would be wearing his usual colour.

Now that he thought of it, Hredon had absolutely no idea what the King intended to wear on his wedding day. He supposed he should ask.

“Watsen,” he called. “I’m heading up to the King’s chambers. Shouldn’t take long.”

Watsen looked up from the table he was clearing with some concern. “I thought we had established that you will not be allowed entry, m’lord,” he reminded the man.

“No, not that,” Hredon sighed, separating the letters and pocketing the tailor’s notice. “Wedding business, this time. I’m to check if His Majesty is in need of buttons.”

“I expect not, m’lord,” Watsen said. He’d never known a King to be in want of anything, least of all buttons. In want of dominion over Pradstan, maybe.

“That’s not the point,” Hredon said crisply. “The point is the  _ gesture _ . Garments can symbolise a union just as much as the act of the wedding itself.”

“If you say so, m’lord.”

***

After steeling himself up and running through a half dozen or os theoretical conversations with Leif the guard, Hredon was surprised to find the man nowhere to be seen as he approached the King’s bedroom door. Knowing far better than to barge in without knocking, he rapped patiently on the hardwood and waited. It was Hilda who answered, her rosy face framed by a white linen cowl. 

“Oh! Hello, dear. Your Highness,” she said.

“Hilda,” Hredon greeted her with some reservation. He still couldn’t entirely figure out if the woman was a former nanny. Her motherly nature was unmistakable, but Alistair was too much of a ruthless bastard to be the sort of sop who clung to his wet nurse. “Is His Majesty in?”

“No, not at this hour, m’lud,” the woman told him. “I expect he’ll be at the garrison. I’m just doing a spot of tidying.” Easing the door open wider with her foot, she revealed herself to be carrying a tray laden with empty cups and few wines bottles.

“Right. Well, I need to give His Majesty a letter, for his tailor. Father’s had buttons made for our wedding suits.”   
  
“That sounds lovely, dear,” Hilda said, adjusting her grip on the tray. “But I need to be getting this down to the kitchens. Could you pop it on his desk? Sorry for the trouble.”

“... Yes, of course,” Hredon answered with a faint furrow in his brow, stepping to one side to let the maid pass. It couldn’t really be this easy, could it? Yet here he was, in the King’s bedchamber once more, completely unsupervised.

He walked towards the desk, where the silver in-tray was apparent. Hilda kept a very tidy chamber indeed. He put the letter in the tray and found his task was complete. And yet here he was, completely unsupervised.

Hredon stared down at the desk, considering his options. He certainly could search the desk drawers for Alistair’s journal. It had to be here somewhere, and it would undoubtedly provide some insight as to what His Majesty thought of his new bride from the coast. Yet it was somehow disappointing that all of this was so very, very, easy. Too easy, in fact. No: best not to take the bait, he decided. With Alistair being such a master tactician, he half expected that any attempt to open the desk drawer would result in him being squirted with ink, or a similar prank.

He turned to leave, finding King Alistair standing directly behind him. A scream ripped from his throat and he shoved the man backwards before he could stop the instinct.

The King took a single step back as though the shove were a simple parry in a fencing match. “You little sneak,” he accused.

“Hardly!” Hredon yelled, deeply offended. How the hell had Alistair gotten so close without make a sound?! He glanced down, expecting to find the man barefoot, and was aggravated to find the usual shined, black boots. “How dare you!” he fumed.

“How dare  _ you _ ,” Alistair countered. “I knew you were talking to the kitchen staff. All I had to do was plant the rumour about the journal and wait.”

So it  _ was  _ a trap! And it was far more of a trap than Hredon had ever realised. There was simply nothing worse than feeling like a fool. “Did you really lie in wait here the entire morning?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” the King said without batting an eye. Stepping forward, he reached past the Prince and plucked a book bound in tan leather out of a drawer. “I even had a false journal made.” He handed the book to Hredon, who was fuming at this point. It stung even more that there was, obviously, no true journal to be had. He opened it up and found all of the pages blank except the very first, which read:

_ Hredon P. Archaeus is an arse _

“Well-played,” he spat, shoving the book back towards Alistair. Even if he had succeeded in getting the bloody thing undetected, that little line was the perfect dagger to spite him. He despised how perfectly this had worked out. Of course, if it had been  _ his  _ scheme, he would’ve been singing a different tune; he freely admitted that. “Why go to the effort of a decoy if you were just going to intercept me?” he demanded.

“I wanted to see if you  _ could  _ get it without my seeing,” Alistair said. “After the stunt with my eye drops, I thought perhaps you might be a magician, using tricks to hide from view.”

Hredon’s heart skipped a beat. He forced a bluster in the hopes that his outrage would mask his reaction. “What kind of magic user can turn invisible!” he protested. “That’s completely preposterous! Magic doesn’t work like that.” 

“And what would you know about it?” the King asked seriously, leaning in closer.

“Well,” Hredon coughed. “One hears things. I frequented many taverns in my rebellious years.”

“You have the look for it, you know,” Alistair murmured, reaching out to brush Hredon’s fringe aside. “With eyes like that.”

Hredon felt the temperature of his face beginning to rise. He grit his teeth and tried to will it to stop, as if he could somehow take command of his own blood vessels and stop himself from blushing. “I could say the same of you!” he snapped, slapping the King’s hand away. “A ‘failing of the pigment’, indeed. One could almost accuse you of deflecting!”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “And so the circle continues to turn.” Suddenly, he offered the Prince an upturned palm. 

Hredon wrinkled his nose, reluctant to take the man’s hand. “What?”

“You spoke of wedding suits,” Alistair said. “Come.”

Hredon yielded, allowing himself to be led across the room to one of the chambers adjoining the bedroom. He raised his eyebrows as re realised it was a dressing chamber, and a rather spacious one at that. It seemed even more spacious due to the fact that all of the shelves and racks on the right side of the room were empty. It struck him that the King had had it cleared in preparation for Hredon moving in. “I see you haven’t been  _ entirely  _ obsessed with war,” he noted.

“I’m very efficient,” Alistair said simply, leading the man to an alcove at the end of the chamber. “I had this commissioned on the day I asked your father for your hand. It was completed a week ago.”

Hredon’s eyes widened. The alcove housed a mannequin (headless, fortunately, for he hated mannequin faces) adorned with a brilliant suit. It almost looked white gold, but the fabric  _ was _ white; it was the brocade pattern that was white gold. The flashiness of the suit jacket and cummerbund was mercifully offset by a plain white trouser with a sharp crease, and a silk dress shirt that had only a little embellishment on the collar. And, of course, a silk cravat, pinned in place with a broach that could very well be edged with diamonds. It was a fine suit indeed, albeit a little different from the Archaeon style, although Hredon took umbrage with the speed of its commissioning. “Awfully sure of yourself, weren’t you?” was all he said, his ego still smarting from earlier.

“I knew you wouldn’t refuse,” Alistair said. “Even without knowing about all that business with the gunpowder, our union was the only logical way to move forward.”

Hredon sniffed, reaching out to inspect the dress shirt for cufflinks. “The buttons might look nice here,” he suggested. “On the jacket would be far too much. Although I am grateful the suit is white. I did wonder if you might get married in black, too.” He gave the King a look.

“White is traditional,” Alistair protested, but even he could see the humour in the statement. “I’ll appease myself with black undergarments,” he said with a careless gesture towards a set of drawers which presumably held the royal briefs. 

“Right,” Hredon said, suddenly very aware of the need of undergarments for the big day. His father would have never seen to such a thing. Was he unprepared, in that regard? The thought was worrying. “I supposed I should arrange my own undergarments,” he commenting, feeling all the more awkward for doings so. “Something blue, and all that,” he added, before he could stop himself.

“Are you taking requests?” the King asked, in a fashion that he hoped was nonchalant but failed to be so.

Hredon cleared his throat. The dressing chamber was beginning to feel awfully warm. He stepped backward, vaguely planning his escape. “I might be open to suggestion,” he said, avoiding eye contact. 

“Then you might find a few tailors in Daeraedmore who do very fine work in red,” Alistair said off-handedly, looking away to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. “Or so I hear.”

Did he really need to have new briefs  _ made _ ? And in such a vivacious colour, no less?! The conversation was quickly heading into territory that Hredon would rather not confront. “Noted,” he said, his voice higher than usual. He turned to leave. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Would you like to see the wedding bands?” Alistair asked, quickly changing the subject. “I have them here with me.”

“No,” Hredon said quickly, backing out of the room, “No; I don’t think I would. I think I’d rather be surprised.”

He turned tail and hurried out, with far more nerve-racking surprises on his mind than the matter of what his wedding ring would look like. The expectations of his wedding night were apparently a little more involved than he had anticipated.


	11. Talking of Porking

“Have you ever seen a more beautiful sight in your life?” Hredon asked wistfully.

“Yes. Most things, in fact,” Finnian teased.

He and Finnian were down on the moors. It was the furthest he had been from the castle since his arrival. The pigsties had been completed, and they had come to witness the grand display: six boars in one pen, and six sows in another. It had taken as many wagons to get them all here. After a brief meeting with the farmers that the crown was paying for the pigs’ upkeep, breeding would commence in the coming days. And then the glorious cycle of bacon supply would begin. 

Hredon had taken his best friend with him on this outing not merely to spend more time with him, but also to ask his advice. His ulterior motive required some distancing from the castle so they could not possibly be overheard. Even then, it was a difficult subject to broach. He cleared his throat. “Finnian,” he began. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Hm?” Finnian looked up from where he had been patting a sow on her flank, over the cobblestone wall. “What is it?”

“My wedding day is soon.”

“Quite. I’ve made an appointment with the hairdresser to braid my hair with white silk flowers. Shouldn’t stand out too much, given all the visiting dignitaries.”

“Yes, well,” Hredon carried on, briefly setting aside whimsical thoughts about what such an elaborate hairstyle might look like. “I did mean to ask, about how you learned of… bedroom matters.”

Finnian snorted. “Really, Philaemon,” he smirked. “I never imagined you as  _ nervous _ .”

“I’m not  _ nervous _ !” Hredon snapped, but it was a lie. “I am simply… wishing to be more informed. That’s all.”

“Well,  _ I _ learned mostly by having sex with the other prostitutes until the Madame thought I was good enough to start taking customers,” Finnian said frankly. “I expect you and His Majesty will have to do things the usual way: with lots of fumbling around in the dark.” He chortled.

“I don’t want to fumble!” Hredon protested. “Oh please, Finnian, won’t you give me some kind of advice?”

Finnian retched. “I think not,” he said, pulling a face. He could think of nothing worse than having to hold his childhood friend’s hand through the most private of lessons.

“What’s the point of knowing a prostitute, then!” Hredon complained. 

“The whorehouse serves very good tea,” Finnian reminded him smugly. 

“I don’t know what to  _ do _ ,” Hredon agonised, slumping over the fence. “He’s already made a fool of me once! If it happens again, I might surely die.”

Finnian rolled his eyes. “You’ll know what to do.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Even if I do, what if it’s far less than what he does?” Hredon worried.

“Please,” Finnian waved his hand. “Don’t forget he’s just as much of a virgin as you are.”

“Or so he says.” Hredon narrowed his eyes.

“Well, he’s not set foot in any brothel in Dreadmore,” Finnian said. “Madame Rosalie’s been boasting that hers is the only one in town that’s hosted the King, even if it was just to have him take you away. The others are green with envy.”

“Hmm,” Hredon hummed with a frown. He still clung to his suspicions; just because Alistair hadn’t been misbehaving within his home city didn’t mean he hadn’t strayed when he was out war-mongering. “The term ‘spoils of war’ comes to mind.”

“Aren’t  _ you  _ the spoils?” Finnian reminded him with a pointed look. It was evident by the distraught look on his friend’s face that this statement did nothing to soothe his torment. “Perhaps nothing will happen at all,” he tried again, putting a hand on his hip. “It’s a Fool’s Marriage, after all. You don’t  _ need _ to consummate.”

“I get the feeling it is expected,” Hredon wrinkled his nose. “There has been a request.”

“What request?” Finnian asked keenly, his imagination running wild.

“Undergarments,” Hredon sniffed. “In red.”

“Is that all?” Finnian laughed. “I should be so lucky! The things I could tell you about client requests.”

“Please don’t.” It was Hredon’s turn to pull a face.

“This is precisely why I won’t give you any lessons.” Finnian stuck out his tongue. “What I can do, though, is take you to a dressmaker’s so you can order those knickers. Then you’ll know you’re at least going in to the situation with the very best outfit.”

It was better than nothing. “Alright.”

***

The dressmaker’s was only a few streets down from Madame Rosalie’s, but what a difference just a few streets could make! The finery in the shop windows, be they tastefully austere or bursting with colour, reminded Hredon of Gold Street in Itallyon. It would appear that His Majesty’s many victories had, in turn, not just boosted the economy of the whorehouses, but also a thriving fashion sector. Entertainers needed costumes, he supposed, not to mention that most people needed clothes generally. He wondered which of these stores was lucky enough to secure the very profitable contract of his fiance’s wedding suit. 

“Here it is,” Finnian said, tugging Hredon’s elbow towards a little shop with a purple-painted facade. As to be expected, it was one of the more exotic shop fronts, with a window featuring drapery of all kinds of different cloth: brocade, bright silks, lace and chiffon. However, there were no mannequins featuring actual clothes to be found. “That’s how you can tell they specialise in underthings,” the redhead told him as he lead him through the door. 

“Oh! ‘Ello,” a thin woman with a noticeably foreign accent and big, green eyes greeted them from behind the counter. She was dressed in a flamboyant, goldenrod silk blouse - a damn sight finer than the usual shopkeep’s uniform, but then again, it was yet another opportunity to display the store’s fabrics. “‘Ow can I ‘elp you fine sirs today?”

“Finnian,” Hredon murmured, his eyes darting around the shop to find no sign of other staff. “She’s a  _ woman _ .”

“Of  _ course  _ she’s a woman,” Finnian whispered back. “Whoever would want to buy underthings from a  _ man _ ? Hello,” he called brightly. “We need to purchase undergarments for a wedding.”

“‘Ow wonderful,” the woman smiled, clapping her hands together. She came around the counter and approached the pair of them. “Would you be after a matching set, or will you be surprising each other?”

Finnian’s eyes bulged as he realised the saleswoman thought they were a couple.

“Just for me, I think,” Hredon chimed in mercifully, a little more used to pushing through social awkwardness, on account of all the politics. “We’re not engaged,” he explained. “My betrothed already has his garments prepared. I, on the other hand, require something…” he paused to clear his throat, “in red. If you have it.”

The woman tittered. “Oh,  _ ma cherie _ , we ‘ave everything,” she said, coming forward to take Hredon be the hand. “Come, let’s get you measured, then we can discuss styles, no?”

***

A few hours later, Hredon and Finnian climbed the Daeraedmore palace steps with the precious cargo of a purchase order receipt in a glossy, purple envelope. When they entered the great hall, a group of Archaeon envoys being received by several porters and officials came into view. The sight caused Hredon to startle and immediately force the conspicuous envelope into Finnian’s hands, muttering for him to hide it in his suit jacket.   
  
“Father!” he called, striding forward with open arms.

The man wearing the most decorated uniform by far turned, pausing his associates with a raised palm as he came forward to greet his son. True to form, King Philaemon Rancorn Archaeus was in full formalwear in the traditional navy blue, complete with naval sash. Among all his medals, the largest was a golden pendant embossed with the Archaeon seal, with two large rubies serving as the dots in the symbol. The treasure actually served as the royal crown for the Kingdom of Archaeon, as circlets and headwear had never really been the fashion, historically. 

“Philaemon,” the man said, adjusting his half-moon spectacles as he glanced at the redhead. “And Finnian Greenbay? I haven’t seen you since you were a boy.” His word were a little strangled at the end, on account of Hredon pinning his arms to his sides and squeezing him tight in a hug.

“Hello, Admiral Rancorn,” Finnian said sweetly. “Did you you have a safe journey?”

“Yes, of course,” King Philaemon said, patting his son on the head. “And you, son, have you been behaving? I received news of your ill temperament soon after your arrival.”

“There were adjustments to be made,” Hredon said freely, not defending the accusations in the slightest. “My beloved has commissioned me a piggery, so now I am in a much better temperament.”

“See that it stays that way,” his father told him with a serious expression. “But I’m glad you’ve found some comfort, and friends, too. It may be all you have, for a time.”

Hredon raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?” he asked promptly.

“The scout has returned from Wasp Point,” Philaemon said. “We sent our fastest cutter. There’s enough beach to deploy troops quickly, if we’re smart about it. His Imperial Majesty has already mobilised preparations. We leave for Pradstan in the days after the ceremony.”

“His  _ Imperial  _ Majesty, now, is it?” Hredon asked. If it were possible, his eyebrows would raise even further. Not only had his fiance dashed all hopes of any sort of honeymoon with his war-mongering, but now he had given himself an impromptu promotion, too?! Where was the declaration? What were the boundaries of such an empire; the trade routes, the tariffs? It was all so fresh that he doubted he could read about it in any kind of textbook available presently, and wasn’t that just infuriating.

“I’m sure you’ll cause no offense by not using his proper title, given your relationship,” the King waved off his son’s concerns. 

“Will that make you an Emperor Consort?” Finnian asked curiously.

”I expect it will, yes,” King Philaemon answered for his son.

“Oh, goody,” Hredon drawled, still fuming. “I’m sure that will change the grand sum of nothing.”

“Philaemon,” the King rebuked his son, voice taking on a warning tone. “Just because you do not understand the motions of war does not entitle you to scorn your husband’s achievements.”

“I  _ understand  _ that he cares much more about his achievements than taking time with  _ anything  _ else,” Hredon snapped. “And he’s not my husband yet. Come on, Finnian,” he grabbed his friend’s hand and dragged him in the direction of his private chambers. The cheek of it! After he had gone to the effort of ordering undergarments for the special occasion. Could one even call it special, any more? His  _ Imperial  _ Majesty was all but racing away as soon as possible. He’d hoped for a week, at least, but apparently even that was too much!

Perhaps he wouldn’t wear the sodding red silks at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Philaemon Rancorn Archaeus   
> SPECIES: Human  
> AGE: 51  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 6’1”; trim, muscular build.   
> FACE: Warm brown eyes; bushy eyebrows; sharp nose; thin lips; angled jawline. Weathered face with wrinkles emphasized by suntan; dutifully clean-shaven though he keeps sideburns. Half-moon spectacles.  
> HAIR: Long, dark brown hair that’s starting to thin, with a deep widow’s peak hairline. Tied back tightly at the nape of the neck.   
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: Archaeon sigil tattooed in the style of an anchor on his right bicep. Weathered hands and a few scars on his torso from swordplay. Small gold hoops in both earlobes.   
> OCCUPATION: King of Archaeon


	12. Wedding Bells

Looking out of the window, Hredon could see the rows and rows of birchwood chairs set out upon the courtyard green. It looked like so many, yet he knew it was not more than two hundred - conservative for a royal wedding, and definitely so for an  _ empirical _ wedding. His husband-to-be was a man of discretion, and invitations had been limited to only the most essential nobles and dignitaries from across the empire. And of course, at a later addition, just one, solitary lowborn: Mr. Finnian Greenbay, presently of Madame Rosalie’s employ.

“Is it to your liking, your Highness?”

The hairdresser wasn’t asking of the seating arrangement, of course; Hredon glanced back towards the mirror and found himself oddly surprised to see both of his mismatched eyes looking back at him. Despite his dramatic inclinations, he’d never been much prone to mirror-gazing. The hairdresser had given him not so much a cut, but simply a style, with the longer locks of his ebony hair swept back in an artful wave with the help of pomade, revealing his forehead. Keeping the fringe had seemed a little childish, for his wedding day.

“Yes,” he said, glancing back down to the garden. “Thank you. That will be all.” Hredon had no idea why he was feeling so forlorn. He supposed he’d have felt a sense of pride if he’d shoehorned his way into dictating the wedding decorations. The lanterns dotting the grand oak tree did look lovely, but they would have looked lovelier still, he believed, if their placement had been under his complete control. And that was what it really came down to, wasn’t it? He did so hate to yield, to anything.

_ Stubbornness _ , Finnian would grin.

“Of course, your Highness. I’ll send for the tailor to bring your suit.” The hairdresser excused himself.

Hredon’s father, no slouch when it came to foresight, had brought with him one of Archaeon’s finest. At yesterday’s fitting, the suit had already been a close fit, but after the tailor had worked overnight, it would fit like a glove. And thank god for his work, for Watsen could never have achieved such a feat. 

***

“It’s magnificent,” Hredon said, staring back at himself in the full-length mirror in his chambers. The epaulettes created a sharp angle out of his shoulders and not a single pearl tassel hung out of place thanks to the braiding of the thread. Double-breasted silver buttons inlaid with mother of pearl. It was, without question, the finest suit he had ever worn - fitting, in more ways than one. 

“An excellent choice of hairstyle,” his father, behind him, noted. “It’s aged you by about five years, and I do mean so in a flattering way.”

“Great minds think alike.” Hredon smiled. He turned towards the door, but his father stopped him, holding up a small, felted ring box in his hand.

“Something blue, I think,” Philaemon said. 

“What?” Hredon quirked his eyebrows. That was just an old seawive’s tale. He was about to comment that his father shouldn’t have their wedding bands at all, they should already be with the master of ceremonies, when the King opened the box and he saw that it didn’t hold a ring at all.

“It’s not silver,” his father explained as he pulled the medallion from the box. “It’s platinum. We had a small reserve from expeditions across the Emerald Stretch.” The medal, embossed with the Archaeon seal in much the same way that his father’s crown medal was, hung from a ribbon in Archaeon navy. 

Hredon’s eyes widened. He had not expected to receive such a precious thing as a wedding present. Words briefly failed him as he watched his father pin it to the breast of his jacket.

“Your mother would weep to see you this fine,” Philaemon said sincerely, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. 

Hredon sniffed, immediately feeling his eyes begin to well with tears.

“Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth,” his father instructed patiently. “Look up.”

Hredon did so, breathing slowly and deeply. He didn’t cry, after all. “Thank you,” he whispered, when his emotions finally allowed him to speak.

“Come, it’s time.”

***

Sometime between Hredon’s haircut and his dressing, the guests had poured in from the great hall. When he arrived at the rose gazebo, the seats had been filled with an explosion of colour. Having such a wide variety of guests afforded a lot of diversity in formalwear; the guests were wearing everything from tuxedos to vibrant, intricately woven robes and turbans. Peeking out from the roses, Hredon was satisfied to note two things. The first being that no guest had  _ dared _ wear white or anything close to it. Secondly, there was no sign of any red, flowery hair in the back row. Alistair had evidently had the foresight to give Hredon’s best friend a more honorable seat, and it was good thing he had. There would have been bloody murder if Finnian had been cast at the back row. 

“Are you ready?”

Hredon turned, taking in the sight of Alistair in his full royal finery. He raised his eyebrows when he saw that His Imperial Majesty had decide to wear the Daeraedmorian crown for the ceremony. God, the thing looked like a deadly weapon in and of itself; a heavy, white-gold circlet that sat upon the brow bone, with great, tapered spikes. One of the spikes at the very centre extended downwards, covering part of Alistair’s nasal bridge, not unlike a battle helmet. Much like his artfully sculpted platinum medal, he new better than to judge the crown’s worth by the absence of gemstones.

“Y-yes, of course,” he said, turning away from the garden bed and straightening out his suit unnecessarily. He held out his hand.

Alistair smiled, taking the Prince’s hand in his. Before he moved forward, however, he turned it to expose the inside of Hredon’s wrist. He bent kiss the delicate, veined skin there, like a gentleman might kiss the back of a lady’s hand.

Hredon rather wished he hadn’t. The last thing he needed was butterflies when the trumpets prompted a sea of dignitaries to rise in their seat and greet their approach. It was a slow procession; most likely to allow everyone to get a proper look at the decorated couple. Finding it rather uncomfortable to make eye contact with a crowd who were mostly strangers (Hredon was moderately well travelled, but not _that_ well-travelled) he instead kept his focus on the grand oak tree. Now that the twilight had rendered the sky in hues of pink and purple, the lanterns were really coming into their own. 

Waiting for them at the foot of the altar was Hredon’s father, and General Gallagher, both in full regalia. It was customary for a parental figure to oversee the stepping onto the altar. Hredon felt a pang of pity as he realised Alistair hadn’t either. He knew full well what it was like not to have a mother, but he couldn’t even imagine not having a father, too.

When they reached the end of the aisle, Hredon too his father’s hand, and Alistair took General Gallagher’s. Then, the two older men took each other’s hand, and all four of them were linked. The crowd took their seats as the master of ceremonies, dressed in burgundy robs with deep sleeves, raised his arms.

“Hail Daeraedmore,” he announced.

“ _ Hail Daeraedmore _ ,” the crowd repeated.

“Hail Archaeon.”

“ _ Hail Archaeon _ ,” Hredon joined the second chant.

“We are gathered here today to witness the union of His Imperial Majesty, Alistair Iain Daeraed, second of his name, Commander in Chief of the Imperial Daeraedmore forces, Conqueror of Realms, and Keeper of the Principles.”

The master carried on, “He will be wedded to His Highness, Hredon Philaemon Archaeus, last of his name, Enlightened Scholar of the Arts, Ambassador of Purveyance, Officer of the Coin…”

_ No _ . They wouldn’t. The necessity of a naval title was an Archaeon custom. Surely they wouldn’t bother with such a trifle at a grand event like this.

“... and proficient seafarer.”

If Hredon could have slapped a palm to his face, he would. His hands occupied, he glanced over his shoulder to the crowds, spotting Finnian in the third row. The man’s bright hair was blooming white flowers from underneath a jauntily askew cerulean bowler, and he was positively cackling without sound.

Feeling a squeeze at his hand, Hredon glanced back to the circle and could have sworn he caught the ghost of a smirk on Alistair’s lips. The older men were better practiced in a stiff upper lip.

The master turned to King Philaemon. “You, sir,” he asked. “Do you object to this union?”

“I do not,” the King said.

“And you, sir,” the master turned to the General. “Do you object to this union?”

“I support it whole-heartedly,” General Gallagher blustered.

“Be seated,” the master dismissed them. Both men released their handholds and circled round the couple to take their seats in the first row.

“Let the couple step unto the altar as one,” the master boomed, walking backwards onto the carved wooden platform. 

Glancing at Alistair, Hredon squeezed his hand and they stepped up onto the altar, turning to face each other and shifting their hand hold to the traditional wrist lock. 

“Let this bond be true,” the master proclaimed, placing his right hand over the place where their wrists met. “Do you, Alistair Ilain Daeraed, standing here before all witnesses, declare to join your betrothed in marriage? Do you renounce all other unions, forsake any bastards, and agree to afford your betrothed all fitting titles and accommodations until death do you part?”

Hredon could see Alistair’s eyes narrow. Yes, yes, absolutely no bastards, he had been assured. Yet these were the customary vows for a Fool’s Marriage, at least where two men were concerned, so he would have to tolerate them.

“I do,” the Emperor said.

“And do you, Hredon Philaemon Archaeus, standing here before all witnesses , declare to join your betrothed in marriage? Do you renounce all other unions, forsake any bastards, and spurn the throne of your homeland to instead enter your betrothed’s household as Emperor Consort?”

Emperor Consort. Hredon supposed he would have to get used to being called His Imperial Highness from now on.

“I do,” he said.

“By the power invested in me by the land, I now pronounce you duly wed.”

High above them, in one of Daeraedmore’s tallest towers, attendants acted on the signal of a flag from the courtyard and set off a din of grand, old bells that mixed with applause and cheers from the crowd and created quite a din. Hredon looked up at Alistair, realising that he had been staring at their hands. He wasn’t sure if they would kiss, for it wasn’t typically expected in a union such as theirs, but clearly the Emperor had other plans. He caught his bride’s jaw and pulled him in for a kiss before he could protest, intensifying the cheers from the crowd.

Hredon’s eyes bulged for a moment, but they quickly closed. A performative kiss such as this was very tame, and yet his heart was still racing. When they broke apart, he was sure he was blushing.

“And what tokens will you use to symbolise this union?” The master asked once the din had settled down. 

“These rings,” Alistair said, producing a ring box from his pocket. He held it between them and opened the lid. Hredon’s breath hitched. Emeralds; red emeralds, no doubt from the prized mines of Tarriket. Both in the box, they fit together perfectly with a chevron groove. The ring for Alistair had a thicker, smooth band of white gold, while Hredon’s ring was thinner, and braided. It felt strange to have it on his finger, but he had to admit that it was beautiful.

“Then go!” The master of ceremonies boomed, laughter creeping into his voice as he stamped his feet as if to chase the newlyweds off the platform like scared animals. “Run from the altar as one, and let the celebrations begin!”

A smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Hredon grabbed Alistair’s hand, and fled with him down the aisle.

***

They held the wedding feast in the great hall, where the ceiling positively shone like stars, for the sheer number of lanterns that had been strung from the rafters to join the chandeliers. Like all good weddings, music played and alcohol flowed freely into the waiting cups of cheerful guests: wine, mead and beer alike. Hredon had decline all of it save for one glass of port, which he was reserving for the wedding toasts. He did not want to lose his wedding night in a fog of intoxication.

And surely just one cup would help with any nerves.

“Philaemon!” Finnian had chosen this moment to come up to the head table. It was good timing, for Alistair had excused himself the moment that food had begun to be served, and it was clear that it was his presence, and not Hredon’s, that drew well-wishers from around the world to the general vicinity. “Congratulations!”

“Finnian!” Hredon beamed, pushing his plate to one side. He too, had not much of an appetite, though he had sampled some of the venison steak and found it to be very tasty. “Don’t you look handsome!”

“Thank you. I’m rather pleased with it.” Finnian was wearing a suit in the Itallyon fashion, in the same cerulean hue as his hat: Hredon hadn’t realised when he’d been sitting down. A high-waisted trouser with a deeper blue cummerbund coupled with a cropped length jacket with two short, curved tails at the back. His white dress shirt had a white silk bow tied under the collar to match the flowers in his hair. Yet compared to the technicolor robe of the Tsar of Tarriket, Finnian had been right in his prediction that he would not stick out too much amongst the wedding guests.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Hredon worried that his friend had no one else to talk to. “I should have insisted on giving you a plus-one. I hope you’re not getting bored.”

“Not at all,” Finnian said slyly, sipping at the glass of white wine in his hand. “I’ve slept with at least a dozen men in this room, and counting. It’s been wicked fun reintroducing myself anew,” he grinned.

Hredon snorted. “You never!”

“I did,” Finnian said smugly. “Some of them couldn’t believe their eyes. Except the Archaeon Grandmaester, who said he expected I’d end up in a place like this.”

“Yes, well,” Hredon shrugged, “he knew we were childhood friends.”

“No, no,” Finnian said airily. “‘Even if you had not known His Imperial Highness’, were his exact words…”

“ _ Please _ .” Hredon rolled his eyes.

“Hredon,” Alistair called, joining them back at the table. He had returned in his wedding suit, with the new addition of a half-length cape. Hredon had read about such a thing. He expected the back would be embroidered with a stag and a doe, or in this case, a stag and a stag. “We are expected to open the dance floor.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Finnian said with a curtsy.

“Mr. Greenbay,” Alistair said cordially.

“Very well,” Hredon sighed, getting out of his seat. He allowed his husband to take his hand. “I trust his  _ Imperial  _ Majesty knows how to waltz?”

“You ought to call me Alistair,” Alistair murmured. “Now that we’re married.”

“And you ought to call me Philaemon,” Hredon countered. “And my father Rancorn, too, otherwise you’ll get us mixed up.”

“You Archaeon people are so…  _ archaic _ ,” Alistair complained as he led the young man towards the dance floor.

“That is  _ not  _ the etymology of the word. I’m leading,” Hredon added.

“Like hell you are,” Alistair argued, facing the man and adjusting the grip of their hands so he could lead. “ _ Emperor Consort _ .”

Hredon’s nose wrinkled. The exchange was far more words than they had shared at any other point throughout the entire day. Huffing, he reached behind him to bring Alistair’s hand further towards the centre of his back. “Fine.”

And so the waltz began.

“It’s a magnificent suit.” Alistair paid the compliment tactfully as they turned around the room. Nobles gathered along the edge of the dance floor to watch them, making light applause.

“Yes,” Hredon agreed, watching the colours of the ladies’ dresses blur together with each turn. “I expect I’ll get to wear it again in the future, when you’re finally home long enough to sit for a wedding portrait.”   
  
This close, Hredon could tell that Alistair wanted to pull a face, but wouldn’t let himself with this many onlookers. “ _ Must _ we?” he hissed through a forced smile.

“Much like you insisted on leading,” Hredon purred. “I insist.” That suit was a work of art. To not commemorate in a portrait was a crime, and an insult to the very lineage of the tailors who created it. And, of course, to a lesser extent, a marriage was a significant life event.

“This is about the suit, isn’t it?” Alistair stared at Hredon in disbelief. The Prince, no, Emperor Consort, was not that hard to read.

“Pay attention,” Hredon reminded him sweetly. “Others are joining the floor. If you cause a collision, my old dance masters may very well attempt regicide.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

“I’d like to see  _ you  _ try some Itallyon variations in this waltz,” Hredon countered neatly. He should have been the one to lead. Then again, he sincerely doubted that his new husband would have been able to keep up with his prowess.

“ A waltz is a waltz,” Alistair complained.

“Oh,” Hredon chortled. “ _ Dear _ .”

As the song finished, both men stepped back and bowed. Hredon perked up considerable when the orchestra transitioned into a much jauntier tune.

“What is this?” Alistair’s brow furrowed.

“It’s a jigstep,” Hredon said keenly. Now this was a dance with enough complexity to keep him engaged. It was also an Archaeon classic; indeed, many of those now making a beeline for the dance floor were wearing navy. Even his own father appeared to have asked a duchess of some sort to dance.

“I don’t know how to jigstep,” Alistair said stiffly.

“Might I cut in?” Finnian asked brightly, appearing out of nowhere. “I bribed the orchestra,” he announced proudly.

“Finnian, you genius!” Hredon grinned, taking his friend’s hands. “Come on, I’ll lead. Darling, you’re free to run back to your generals,” he snickered, giving the Emperor a parting caress on the cheek. “It’s obvious you hate this.”

Alistair looked for a moment as though he might protest, then thought better of it. Because truthfully, yes; he did detest dancing, and the waltz was the only dance he knew. He left the two young men to their own devices and sought out less lively company. Even as he walked away, the Archaeon guests were beginning to make a rapid rhythm of their own using the heels of their shoes.

***

A much more sated, smiling Hredon later appeared on Alistair’s arm just in time for the speeches, his cheeks lightly flushed and his breath smelling suspiciously of rose wine. 

“I’d forgotten how lovely parties can be,” Hredon said serenely, but very quietly, so as not to distract from his father’s anecdote about the day he realised Archaeon and Daeraedmore’s principles aligned so well.

Alistair knew better than to explain that the event was not technically a party. “Yes,” he agreed in a whisper. 

“Please take off that stupid crown the next time you kiss me.” 

The Emperor raised his eyebrows, collecting himself without a moment to spare, instead smiling warmly and lifting his goblet to acknowledge the speech. “Skoll.”

“ _ Skoll, _ ” the great hall echoed, and drank.

Hredon reached for the small glass of port, still waiting on the head table after all this time, and Alistair stopped him. “I was saving it,” the man protested.

“You’ve had enough,” Alistair said patiently, taking the glass and handing it to a waiter who whisked it away. He reached up to his shoulders and unclipped his wedding cloak, turning it to drape over Hredon’s shoulders instead. The Emperor Consort fingered the cloth curiously and found it to his liking, pulling it tighter around his shoulders. 

“Come,” he murmured, helping the man to stand. “Let’s go to bed.”


	13. As if in a Dream

Served in a black cup, the steaming liquid looked almost like ink. Breathing deeply of the aroma, Hredon reached for a tiny jug and poured in just a dash of milk, watching it cloud and turn the whole brew a rich shade of brown. He hadn't had coffee in years. Five years, he thought. Maybe six. 

“It’s so hard to get this south of Tarriket,” he said in wonder.

“It was a wedding gift from the Tsar,” Alistair said, watching his husband drink. He had declined a cup for himself. Standing at his dresser, he loosened his cravat and set about removing his cufflinks and other finer aspects of his wedding suit. Both men had left their shoes at the door, Hredon’s significantly more scuffed than Alistair's. 

Hredon sipped his coffee like it was a ceremony. It was a peculiar taste. He couldn't tell if he preferred breathing the aroma to actually drinking it. 

"Don't spill it," Alistair warned him, carefully easing the imperial crown off his head and setting it upon a faceless, wooden bust by his dresser. "It stains."

Hredon's eyes bulged. Still in his beloved wedding suit, he carefully set the cup down with both hands as though the ceramic might explode at any moment, then got up from the table and busied himself with his suit buttons. 

"Can you manage it?" Alistair asked.

The question caught Hredon off guard. "What on earth do you mean?" he asked, looking over his shoulder only to see Alistair coming towards him. Tensing, his hands suddenly did indeed forget how to maneuver a button from its respective buttonhole. 

“You lot can’t do anything without your butlers,” Alistair tutted, walking over.

“ _Boot_ lers,” Hredon corrected him. A butler managed an entire household. A bootler merely managed a wardrobe and his master’s personal affairs. Watsen should be so lucky to graduate to the status of a butler. “And _please_. I’m hardly helpless.” His automatic indignation distracted him from Alistair’s approach, and he startled when the man’s hands came around him and took over the task of is buttons. “W-wait--”

Alistair’s breath hitched in Hredon’s ear when he parted Hredon’s suit jacket enough to expose his undershirt. The red silk was so thin, it was translucent, like gossamer. “Scandalous,” he murmured, in awe.

“Hardly!” Hredon protested, rounding on him with balled fists. The indignation quickly fell from his face when Alistair pushed his jacket off his shoulders. The sheer vest had two diamontes sewn over each nipple, in mimicry of piercings (without the actual piercings, of course - now, that really would be scandalous). Hredon felt his cheeks redden when Alistair reached out to cup his chest, his thumb nudging the hardened nub under the fabric. 

“I just thought…” Alistair whispered, and his eyes were on the band of white fabric concealing Hredon’s fly. It was clearer now, what he’d meant when he’d said undergarments, yet the matching vest was a delightful bonus. He reached for the ties at the back of Hredon’s cummerbund, but his husband caught his wrist.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Hredon said hoarsely, face still flushed, with narrowed eyes. He looked Alistair up and down expectantly. “Strip.”

Alistair faltered, looking away. “I’d rather not ruin the mood,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

Hredon’s nostrils flared. What a thing to say! In that moment, his mind flew to the wildest thought: one heard about the Changing People, as rare as they were. Perhaps all this talk of not siring bastards was because he really, truly _couldn’t_ , because he didn’t have a cock at all. Yet for a Changing Person to advance all the way to the status of King - nay, _Emperor_ \- without a single whiff of gossip nor rumour, even from one’s enemies… it would be an unprecedented feat. He had to know. He’d die if he didn’t. Resolute, he shoved his way forward and accosted Alistair’s buttons.

“Will you not be so rough!” Alistair snapped, for deep down, he was also somewhat attached to the wellbeing of his wedding suit. Grunting, he swatted Hredon’s hands away and loosened his cravat himself. He looked away with a frown, maintaining what he hoped was an air of brooding dignity as he unbuttoned his vest and shirt, revealing a torso of very well-defined muscles. Unlike Hredon, he had foregone an undershirt.

Hredon leaned closer, inspecting his husband curiously. So, he wasn’t a Changing Person after all: he couldn’t be, or he’d have some very specific scars on his chest. There wasn’t a cream in the world that could vanish away scars as serious as those. Alistair had scars, certainly, striping across his shoulders and littering his arms, but they were clearly from his exploits on the battlefield, not surgery. Curiously, he reached out and ran his palm over the skin of the man’s stomach.

“I--” Alistair began, then winced, for Hredon’s hand had already snaked around his hip.

Hredon gasped as the skin under his hands changed in texture. It wasn’t _rough_ , per se, for scar tissue had a certain silkiness to it, but the bumpiness of it was strange enough to send a stab of worry through his chest. He pulled the man round, suddenly met with the heartbreaking sight of the back of a man who had been subjected to flogging.

Flogging had been outlawed in Archaeon over half a century ago. His own father had not seen the punishment in his lifetime. But there were old sailors, very old, who spoke of the horrors of witnessing that sickening act. A few might have had scars of their own to show, if they survived that long. The risk of infection was enormous. Alistair’s skin was healed now, but healed with great, uneven notches in all directions, rendering most of his back into a jagged landscape. Even if Hredon outstretched the fingers of both hands, he could not cover the extent of the scarring. 

“I told you,” Alistair whispered. His body, already tense, stiffened further when Hredon suddenly tackled him in a hug. He relaxed, slowly, as he understood the gesture.

“Does it hurt?” Hredon asked, a little sheepishly, for it was after the fact that his cheek was already pressed against the scarring.

“Not any more,” the Emperor murmured, gently prising Hredon’s hands from his chest. Turning round, he cupped the man’s cheek. His old war injuries were not something he wanted to dwell on during his wedding night. “Please,” he said. “Let me see you.”

  
  


Hredon felt the butterflies in his stomach again at the proposition. Yet after seeing such a terrible, private thing, the act of removing one’s trousers seemed trifling in comparison. With a nervous smile, he loosened his cummerbund, letting it drop to the floor by his feet as he unbuttons his slacks. 

The silk of his briefs were opaque, but they did not leave much to the imagination. Belting tightly on his waist, a thin stip of silk came down between his legs to cup his privates. The fabric tapered to a mere half inch so as not to interfere with the natural curve of his buttocks. The effect on the mannequin in the back room of that scandalous shop had been very striking, and on Hredon’s pale body, it was doubly so. 

Alistair took a deep breath before he reached out to touch him. “I do so love red-- _ah,_ ” he hissed as he received a swat on the hand. 

Hredon stared at his husband petulantly, hopping back to sit on top of the low bookshelf behind him. He crossed his legs to make a point. “Strip,” he said again.

Alistair clicked his tongue, looking around as though he half expected someone else to be in the bedroom, watching them. Of course, there was no one else. Hredon just carried an air of drama in everything he did. Chuckling at his lot in life, he removed his own trousers. He had favoured a simple pair of short trunks, albeit in black velvet.  
  
Hredon swung his feet where he sat, watching Alistair with an impish smirk. “That’s better,” he said, beckoning the man closer with a crooked finger. “Just one more thing.”

Alistair approached, somewhat cautiously, watching as Hredon reached up past his ear. A moment later, his husband had pulled the ribbon holding back his long locks of hair at the base of his skull. He would have untied it without a second thought, if Hredon had asked, but somehow having the Emperor Consort do it added a strange sort of thrill. “You’re bizarre,” he told him.

“Yes,” Hredon agreed, uncrossing his legs. He spread his thighs and pulled the man closer, leaning his head up to kiss him again now that he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous helmet. 

Alistair, who seemed finally able to touch his husband without having his hand swatted, did so keenly, flicking up the hem of his vest to roam his chest with his hands. He felt his own pulse quicken in response to the thump of Hredon’s heartbeat under his hand. He pushed into the kiss with a quiet moan, fighting the urge to bite the plump lip between his teeth. He startled when Hredon did the very thing he’d been avoiding, grabbing the man by the hips and dragging him closer on instinct. But of course, Hredon’s teeth were a lot less sharp than his own: he could feel his bottom lip throb where he’d been nipped, but there wasn’t any blood.

Red silk against his skin. God, how he wanted there to be blood.

“Your eye drops are wearing off,” Hredon told him keenly, sounding a little out of breath. With his face unhindered by his fringe, he stared back with his own mismatched eyes, watching as the illusion of brown in Alistair’s eyes began to fade, bringing about a crimson hue.

Alistair looked towards his dresser. “I can take them again,” he offered, uncertain about how his new spouse felt about the matter. 

“No,” Hredon shook his head. He reached up to tangle his fingers in the man’s loose hair, pulling him towards the pale slope of his neck. “I like it.” He liked the tickle of Alistair’s lips against his throat, too. The marks he had made before, if made under more agreeable circumstances… yes, he could enjoy that, too. 

Alistair whimpered, tracing the unseen line of Hredon’s vein with his tongue. He could feel it. He could _smell_ it. His trunks pulled tight as he rutted against the bookcase, teasing himself with teeth merely grazing his husband’s supple throat. There was a neediness to the way he rocked his hips; a hunger that was affecting him in more ways than one. “Hredon,” he croaked.

“Philaemon,” came the breathless correction.

“ _Hredon_ ,” the Emperor insisted urgently. Inner circle names be damned; this was the one that felt natural and true. And no man walked this earth who had ever called him _Ilain_ .”I… I don’t know what to _do_.”

Hredon managed a titter, despite his own panting, despite the lump in his own briefs that made him spread his legs wider and readjust his seat on the shelf. Finnian had been right: they were both hapless virgins, after all.

“The bed, I think,” he suggested with a flicker of a grin. He yelped when Alistair quickly nodded and hauled him bodily off the shelves. He barely had time to cross his ankles behind the man’s back before he found himself carried to the king-size bed and deposited very carefully on the black silk sheets. Alistair joined him, straddling his hips and pushing him back. Hunching forward, he kissed him again, just for a taste, hoping the man might bite him again.

“Can I touch you?” Hredon asked instead.

Alistair knew what he meant, of course. He was not opposed to it, even if his head was full of vivid visions of things he’d rather be doing with the man. Yet the notion of cutting, of _biting_ , seemed impossible to broach, even with one’s husband, and so he swallowed and pushed down his trunks as Hredon sat up to get a proper look at him.

“Bastard,” Hredon muttered with hooded eyes, taking the Emperor’s cock in his hand.

Confusion. “What?”

“It’s bigger than mine.” Hredon sulked, feeling the weight of it in his hand.

Alistair had to laugh, if only quietly. Then the chuckle became a gasp, and then a moan, as he suddenly became very familiar with the warmth of Hredon’s mouth. Who knew it could be so welcoming? His hands quickly found his husband’s hair, decimating the skillful work of the hairdresser in a bid to get the man to take more of him. Hredon’s grip tightened and he stayed put, nursing on the head of him, and Alistair found he didn’t mind that at all. Especially not when the man started experimenting with his tongue.

“G-god,” he whimpered, pale hips bucking forward. Hredon’s hand stopped him from causing too much trouble. Alistair’s face contorted as the man found a rhythm that plucked at the strings of his loins. An instrument; he was playing him like an instrument, and what an absurd thought that was. Yet it persisted, relentlessly, much like Hredon’s mouth, and it was a sweet relief to lose himself in this, rather than think about that thrumming, red temptress flowing in his lover’s veins.

He was so close already. “Hredon,” he tried to warn him, his voice cracking. He tugged at the man’s hair, trying so hard not to hurt him, and of course achieving absolutely nothing. “St-stop… _aaaah!_ ” He sang, alright, and Hredon kept playing - until the surge of warmth in his mouth made him cough.

“You beast!” Hredon accused, gasping for breath.

His lips were still slick with the bitter taste. Alistair stared at him for a moment, panting, before he pushed the man down without warning and hunched over him, seizing his lips in a hungry kiss. Illicit. Warm. Good. The taste of himself barely even masked the scent, that siren call of blood and plasma inside him. He could feel the thrum of it in the flesh under his hands. He pulled at the red silk that bound his lover’s hips, hearing fabric tear.

“Alistair!” Hredon cried angrily. The undergarments hadn’t survived a single day. 

“I’m sorry,” Alistair stammered, staring down at him with wide, red eyes. “I hadn’t expected you to smell quite so good. It wasn’t like this before.”

Hredon raised his eyebrows and stared back. He didn’t know what Alistair meant. His Imperial Majesty favoured a cedarwood cologne, he knew, but Hredon didn’t favour any - not even for his wedding day. Surely the ocean salt from Archaeon had long since faded. “What do you--”

His eyes were awful wide. Had they always been that shade of red, or had they been another? He’d only gotten a glimpse before. It was hard to recall. It was hard to focus on anything else. His eyes were _beautiful_. Why hide them? He should throw those eyedrops from the tower!

“I’m sorry,” Alistair muttered, unblinking. “You don’t mind, do you? Just a little. Oh _god_ , please…”

_Please_. When had Alistair’s voice become so alluring? Hredon cooed, his brow softening as he reached out to touch the man’s face, to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. Those eyes, so beautiful, yet rife with desperation. Why was his lover so upset? He didn’t want him to be. Nothing would feel better than seeing him at peace; yes, the thought was clear. He only needed to know how.

Alistair kissed him again, only hastily, before his lips moved to Hredon’s ear. “You’re warm,” he told him. “You’re safe.” He dragged a thumb across the junction of the man’s neck. “It feels good.”

_Good_ , yes. When the bite came, it felt sweet, and Hredon gasped in delight at the feeling of Alistair’s fangs inside him, of his tongue coaxing more blood from the wound. He could feel Alistair’s manhood, so recently spent, hard and turgid again, pressing up against his own. The Emperor’s mouth shifted and teeth slipped into him again, making his consort’s back arch.

“More,” Hredon moaned, his mind hardly with himself. His hand found the base of his own prick, stroking in harmony to the attentions of Alistair’s tongue. He cried out as a strong hand grabbed his wrist in an attempt to pull it away. Even in his daze, he protested, because he _had_ to, he had to touch himself or he would _scream_ , but in the same instant that his hand was taken away, Alistair’s own took up the task. The motions were familiar, but the sensation was entirely new: a new heat, a new rhythm, a new element of unpredictability that made his feet drag blindly across the silk sheets.

“Alistair,” he wailed, because the pleasure was mounting and he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “A-Alistair!” 

The Emperor lifted his head, lips stained red Hredon’s blood. He ran his tongue, broad and wet with spit over the little holes he’d made in his lover’s neck, savouring the last few drops of his taste. Exquisite copper. “Yes,” he said huskily, feeling Hredon squirm underneath him. Even with the knowledge that he’d put him in such a receptive state, it was enchanting to watch the arousal on his face, the way his lips parted to make such sweet moans. Still keeping him in his hand, he shifted onto his side, lips finding the man’s ear again. “Come for me,” he crooned, stroking him faster. He wondered, with a little thrill of power, if he could make the man do it spontaneously. 

Hredon hiccuped, pressing back into Alistair and craning his neck as if he could catch more of the man’s hto breath in his ear. The order sent a shiver through him, and his heart pounded in his chest. The stroking hand began to feel impossibly good, and he came with a loud, sharp moan, spilling himself into Alistair’s cupped palm. 

The Emperor couldn’t help himself. He brought the hand to his face and licked it clean, Hredon’s scent filling his nose and driving his feeding instincts like so much blood. He licked the space between his fingers and glanced at the panting man with a stab of worry about what he had done. When Hredon tried to turn to face him, he quickly wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close to his chest. 

“What…” Hredon murmured sleepily, reaching back for the man’s elbow..

“Shhh,” Alistair cooed, summoning the power of persuasion inside him again. “Hush, it’s only a dream. Go back to sleep.”

The words made the man hum, his hand dropping to his side as he eyelids began to droop. “Mmm…”

And so Alistair lay there next to his husband, in the bed that he had made, daring not to move lest he wake him from his peaceful sleep. He was resigned to let himself soften without release, burying his nose into the soft locks of hair at the back of Hredon’s head. He breathed in his scent, slow and steady, finding a certain calm in it even when his mind should be racing.

Eventually, he too, slept, praying that his suggestions would keep hold come morning.


	14. Long Live the Emperor

The next morning, Hredon awoke in a daze. His limbs felt heavy, and the sheets felt blissfully soft, even for silk. Humming in pleasure, he rolled over onto his side and pulled more of the sheets with him, with half a mind to sleep in. That was, until he remembered that he was in completely new bedroom, with a new bedmate, to match. His eyes snapped over and he sat up at once… to find himself all alone in the king-size bed (or was that Emperor-size too, now?). 

Really. Was it _so_ much to expect to have breakfast with one’s husband? 

Frowning, he threw the sheets off and walked nude into the dressing chamber. Evidently, Watsen has been busy while the wedding feast was underway, because the entirety of his wardrobe had been moved in at some point. Given how little he’d taken with him on his initial journey, the collection looked very sparse compared to Alistair’s side of the room, which he had no doubt amassed over a lifetime. Now that he was _Emperor Consort_ , Hredon supposed he could commission some new clothes. In the meantime, he picked out a suit from his existing options, settling on Archaeon navy. He was hardly going to stop wearing the colour in light of his marriage - he looked so good in it, after all.

Ideally, Watsen would have come in by now to help him dress. He expected the man hadn’t worked up the nerve to come in on the morning after their wedding night. Who knew what he thought he might see. Come to think of it… Hredon paused in putting on his shirt, wandering over to the mirror in just his trousers. He was sure he’d have another wicked mark to show for their efforts last evening, but he was surprised to see his neck completely bare. Running his hand over the skin, he didn’t find it tender in the slightest. 

“Surely not…” he frowned, muttering to himself. Alistair had given him another one of those infuriating hickeys, had he not? At least, he thought he had. He paused as he tried to put the events of last night into order, finding the task somewhat difficult. Perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted so many glasses on rose wine on the dance floor. He could certainly remember the feeling of Alistair inside his mouth, and the taste of him afterwards (he wasn’t as fond of that part) but after that… 

Had he dreamed it? He winced as the possibility occurred to him that he’d passed out from a mix of drunkenness and exhaustion. God, how embarrassing! And what a thing to do on one’s wedding night, too. If that had been what happened, then perhaps he wasn’t so cross that the man had left in the morning. He continued dressing, supposing he’d have to steel himself for the inevitable smug remarks from his new husband. He expected he’d pass him in the hallway as the Emperor made his way to some battle planning meeting or other. ‘ _So nice to see you awake_ ,’ he’d say. And here he was, unable to think of any witty retorts, even when he was planning ahead. Sickening!

Some bacon would put him in a better mood. He marched over to the bedroom door and pulled it open, startling when he found Hilda standing there, her hand still raised in the fist to knock on the door.

“Oh!” the woman exclaimed, lowering her hand. “Good morning, your Imperial Highness. May I come in to do a spot of tidying? I’d like to get the royal wedding suits down to the laundry for pressing.”

“Oh… yes, of course. Thank you,” Hredon nodded, stepping aside to let the woman in. “Hilda, was it?” he asked.

“Yes, m’lud,” she smiled.

“Where is my husband?” Hredon asked. “I should like to invite him to breakfast.”

“Oh,” Hilda raised her eyebrows, “he’s already eaten breakfast, I’m afraid. He was up before dawn to set off with the march.”

_No_. He wouldn’t dare.

“Which march was that?” Hredon asked, entertaining the slimmest notion that it might be a drill of some kind.

“The march on Pradstan, m’lud,” Hilda answered earnestly.

_What?!_

Hredon bit his tongue, looking away. It wasn’t Hilda’s fault that Alistair had done this, after all. “Very well. Thank you, Hilda.” He took his leave.

***

“ _Watsen!_ ” Hredon roared as he burst through the kitchen doors.

The blond man looked up from the serving bench with an expression of sheer panic. “M-m’lord!” he stammered, looking down at a plate that was holding buttered toast and nothing else. “There was a delay in the kitchens! Breakfast will be ready momentarily!”

“Cooking sendoff rations, I expect,” Hredon snarled, noting the overall business of the kitchen. Even for a castle, they were especially busy. It was no wonder why. “You won’t believe what he’s done now, Watsen!” Hredon huffed, turning to sit on the serving bench. 

“Would that be his Imperial Majesty, m’lord?” Watsen asked gingerly.

“Who else?!” Hredon cried, throwing his hands into the air. “He’s only gone and sodded off to Pradstan without so much as a goodbye! He’s a complete bastard!”

It was a difficult statement to respond to, as a servant. “If… if you say so, m’lord,” Watsen tried.

“I do. Ah!” No sooner had a cook come up beside Watsen and deposited some bacon on the waiting bread, did the dark-haired man snatch it up. “Good man,” he said, slapping the other bread on top and taking a savage bite out of the resulting sandwich. He moaned - this was exactly what he needed. “Fantastic,” he said, his mouth still full.

The chef, ever the surly type, nodded wordlessly in acknowledgement and continued about his business.

“Shall we go to the dining room, m’lord?” Watsen suggested, watching the spectacle with a raised eyebrows. Despite their many tasks, a few of the kitchen staff managed to take notice of the bizarre behaviour, too. With Alistair away from the citadel, Hredon was presently the highest in command, and it was… a tad unseemly, to see him sat upon a bench eating, like a dishwasher taking a break.

“No, no, what’s the point? It would be a waste of a table setting.” Hredon waved him off, having finally swallowed. “Have them make another. Treat yourself too, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but I ate much earlier,” Watsen set. As a former lantern-keeper, he still rose before dawn out of sheer habit. 

“Perhaps _you_ could catch my elusive husband, then,” Hredon grumbled. “Not even one day… honestly. His obsession is sickening.”

“If it helps you feel better, m’lord, I imagine all this is for the good of the empire,” Watsen offered.

“We don’t _need_ Pradstan, Watsen!” Hredon agonised, wringing his hands before polishing off the last morsel of his sandwich. “This empire is _unprecedented_ . Archaeon, Daeraedmore _and_ Tarriket, plus a dozen others? Any of the remaining nations on the continent would be _suicidal_ to stand against us, on land or sea. We could very well just draw a line in the sand and tell Pradstan not to cross it, and they wouldn’t dare.”

“Pradstan’s got it’s own line,” a gruff voice piped up. It was the chef, scowling from behind his work bench. “Plenty of armies have tried to take it, on account of the diamond mines, but they don’t come out. Ain’t never been a Pradstan soldier who’s set foot outside of the place. They stay put in that fancy city o’ theirs.”

“Well, there you have it,” Hredon said incredulously, waving his hand towards the man. “Even the chef knows. I say cease the conquering and focus on governing what we have. Although I wouldn’t mind bringing Itallyon into the fold - diplomatically, of course.” He beamed as the chef handed him a plate with another sandwich. The kitchen was fast becoming his favourite place in the castle. 

“All this talk is a little over my head, I think,” Watsen frowned. He wasn’t a King, after all - or an Emperor consort, or what have you. He also wasn’t inclined to visit the tavern to speak with soldiers on most evenings, as the chef was. 

“Well,” Hredon said neatly, picking up his sandwich, “If you’d like something to think about that’s a little more suited to a bootler, you can run into town and pick me up a half-dozen catalogues from the fashion district. It’s time we started expanding my wardrobe.”

That did sound a lot more simple. “...Yes, m’lord.”

***

That night, all alone in his new (and frankly, humongous) bedroom, Hredon tossed and turned on the black silk sheets. He hadn’t been able to keep from touching that spot on his neck, so much so that now there _was_ a mark on the skin from where he’d kept rubbing it. Yet the notion that there should be something more nagged at him. Try as he might, he just couldn’t get a concrete memory of Alistair’s lips at his neck that he knew for certain was fact, not fiction. It was a worrisome thing, but then again, he rarely drank. The wine’s fault, perhaps.

Huffing, he rolled over, grabbing a pillow from Alistair’s side of the bed and dragging it close to his chest so he could feel some kind of weight against him. He hugged it closed and screwed his eyes shut, trying to get himself to settle. His eyes snapped open again as the scent of cedarwood hit his nostrils.

“Fuck!” he hissed, giving the pillow a punch. Traitorous thing. Rolling over onto his back, he stared at the ceiling with a helpless frown. He could already imagine how the conversation with Finnian would go about such a thing. 

_Well, do you WANT him to do it?_

He couldn’t quite say. Or at least, the notion of admitting it made him squeamish for reasons he couldn’t quite place. His ego, perhaps. 

_Did it feel good?_

He’d imagined it had. Was that the same thing as it actually feeling good? God, he just didn’t know! Rolling back over, he thrust his face into the pillow and used it to stifle a scream. He hated this! Married life wasn’t at all what he’d imagined, and his expectations had been low. The stupid man wasn’t even here to help him figure anything out! 

He didn’t get to sleep until he’d tired himself out thinking about it. His left hand may or may not have been involved.

***

“So?” Finnian asked keenly, leaning forward over a pile of brightly-coloured cushions. “How did it go?!”

Given Alistair’s absence from the Capital, Hredon had taken the liberty of calling in to Madame Rosalie’s for tea, rather than inviting Finnian to the castle. The cakes and fancies that the brothel had to offer were a bit more exotic, and he preferred the informal atmosphere. There was, of course, the added bonus that no burning ears were in the nearby vicinity.

“It was… good, I think,” he said, unable to keep from blushing. His imagination had since embellished upon the scene, weaving it into something far beyond a simply hickey. “There’s a very real chance I passed out for some of it,” he admitted.

Finnian snorted into his tea. “Really!” he laughed. “It’s not like you to not hold you liquor.”

“It’s not like me to drink much at all,” Hredon sniffed, tucking his feet under him on the sofa. 

“It was only rose wine,” Finnian quirked an eyebrow. 

“God knows how that compares to rum,” Hredon sighed, shaking his head. “I should have stuck to what I know.” His father brought a bottle of Archaeon’s finest for the wedding toast - he refused to drink anything else. Perhaps Hredon should have done the same.

“It’s much, much weaker,” the redhead told him frankly. 

Hredon blinked. “What?” he asked, looking back at his friend with a perturbed expression.

“Rose wine’s just a party drink,” Finnian said dismissively with a wave of his hand. “It’ll send you giggly for a while, but I thought that’s what you needed to go to bed with that brute without feeling like you were going to the gallows. I wouldn’t have given you it if I thought it would get you properly drunk.”

Hredon’s nostrils flared. The plot thickened! If it wasn’t the drink, they why the _hell_ was that night so foggy?! Could have it been something in the coffee? Some kind of additive, from the apothecary? He was going to go insane, thinking about this while Alistair was away.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Finnian asked, helping himself to a raspberry fancy. “You must have the run of the place with the Emperor away. I bet you enjoy that.”

“Yes, I do,” Hredon admitted, setting his more worrying thoughts aside for the time being. “Everyone has to do everything I say, which means those bean-counters are finally yielding information about the city’s commerce. There’s at least nine reports being drafted for me as we speak.”

“I thought you might start meddling in the trade affairs,” Finnian chuckled. “I don’t see the appeal. It all seems like a lot of moving things about.”

“Yes, but that’s the beauty of it,” Hredon said passionately. He spared Finnian the full spiel: they’d been through the poetics of purveyance before, and the notions simply didn’t take with the Green Bay native. He’d tried to put in terms of brothel work, once, to help give the man some perspective, but Finnian had laughed and called him naive. 

“If _I_ could do anything I wanted,” Finnian mused, tilting his head. “I’d get a great, honking statue or something made of me, or some similar indulgence. And perhaps a fur coat, if it was winter.”

“Rest assured that upon his return, His Imperial Majesty will be sitting for the longest, most intricate, downright _gruelling_ wedding portrait this nation has ever seen,” Hredon said gravely. “In the meantime, speaking of fur coats, I’d like you to come visit one morning. Watsen’s fetching me some catalogues, and I want your opinion on what to order.”

“Fun!” Finnian clapped his hands. “But shouldn’t the bootler already know what to recommend?”

“He’s a very _new_ bootler,” Hredon grimaced.

Finnian chuckled. “Oh, dear.”

***

Some days later, Hredon was holed up in the library with a report from Daeraedmore’s Ministry of Taxation. It was airtight, annoyingly so, for he’d hoped to swoop in with some simple improvements from his prior experience and earn himself a bit of clout. Yet it appeared all due adjustments for the empire’s new wealth had been made at every step of its expansion. Another bloody thing that didn’t need doing.

To his right, the library doors opened, and a soldier marched in with a scroll in his hand.

“Good,” Hredon glanced his way. “I’ve been expecting an update. How is it? Have they taken all the silos yet?” He turned back to his report.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the man said.

“Imperial Highness,” Hredon corrected him in a bored tone, without looking up.

“ _Sire_ ,” the man implored, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was very unusual to be _touched_ by a messenger, and the action caused Hredon to set down his book and look up. When he did, he was jarred to see the man’s sleeve sporting a black mourning band. 

“There was an attack en route to Greater Pradstan, along the northern border. His Imperial Majesty, Alistair Ilain Daeraed, was struck in the chest by an arrow and thrown from a cliff. Three men have corroborated this story. He is believed to be dead.”


	15. One Week Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAME: Adeyemi Kojo Tsarbisi  
> SPECIES: Human  
> AGE: 39  
> HEIGHT/BUILD: 6’7"; long-limbed, muscular.  
> FACE: Fierce, red-brown eyes typically underlined with white paint or gold leaf; sparse eyebrows; long nose; full lips; squared jawline. Dark complexion; clean-shaven. Fond of face paint, gold leaf, and other such ornamentation.  
> HAIR: Unseen: always worn under a brightly colours turban or headdress.  
> PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: No tattoos or significant scars. Pierced ear lobes hung with elaborate gold and beaded jewelery. The rest of his finery comes in the form of necklaces and bracelets.  
> OCCUPATION: Tsar of Tarriket

One the night he’d heard the news, he hadn’t cried. Hredon wasn’t the biggest crier, not even as a child, but he felt some unspoken obligation to cry over something so significant. Lo, the tragic newlywed widower, like something out of a play. 

He’d been advised to stray from Archaeon navy for the time being, lest people get the wrong idea. His suit was dark red, one of the ones he’d had made, and one of the Daeraedmore colours that wasn’t black, black, black. All the better for the black mourning band on his arm to stick out. To remind these men at the round table (savages, each and every one, even his own father, in some way) to toe the line. To show respect. 

It was social codes such as these that he wore like armour now, because to put one foot wrong now could tear the Empire asunder. To show weakness now was perilous; the nations held together by a thread woven of spoken oaths and the circumstances of having allied troops in Pradstan. Show anything other than concrete leadership, and the nations could get their own ideas. One split was all that was needed: one rebellion to whip the rest up into a frenzy.

He would have liked to have cried on the first night, in private, to get it out of his system. Then perhaps it wouldn’t hang over his head now like some kind of threat.

A map was spread out before them. A map of Pradstan. Men were still there, barricaded in silo towns along the Northern border, leading back to Wasp point. They held the grain for now, but it wasn’t a question of having food to eat. Greater Pradstan need only send out its forces to drive them back to the point.

A staggered retreat would be the best action: he could see it play out on the map in sheer perfection, moving the pieces in his mind. Get them out, and never return. Leave the lords of the grain to laze in their gilded tower. A retreat would be wise. A retreat would result in the least death, the most benefit.

But that was not what the loudest voices of the Empire wanted.

“They must pay for what they have done!” Tsarbisi pounded his fist on the table. The Tsar of Tarriket: a fierce and impossibly tall man, whose brightly woven robes positively exploded in comparison to the military uniforms among him. His manner of dress spoke nothing of his tenacity for battle, however. “These dogs of Pradstan kill our Emperor and then sit on their arses! It is an insult to all of us!”

“We need to get reinforcements to Wasp Point as soon as possible, if we’re to continue the attack,” General Gallagher said. The old man, his hair too white for battle, had never left the castle. He corresponded with the deployed forces via raven. He turned to Hredon, clearing his throat. “M’lord,” he said. “How many would you have us send?"

“As if he would know,” Tsarbisi scoffed, the bracelets on his wrists jangling as he gestured recklessly in Hredon’s direction. This new emperor was at least fifteen years his junior, and the Tsar had made his disdain about that fact rather clear. “He’s just a boy!”

Hredon fixed the intimidating man with a cold, withering look, and held it until the entire room fell into silence. When the silence was long enough for his liking, he stoically turned his head and addressed the entire room. He delivered the words with a certain gravitas, a well-practiced sincerity, precisely because he had practiced them over and over again for the better part of the morning. On the inside, he wanted to scream, just like a child. But his composure training, and his love of the stage, gave him just the tools he needed to see this task done.

“I would love so much to be dramatic, to be able to claim that I am once more left to pick up the pieces left behind by my late husband’s love of war,” he said, allowing himself to smile at the faint chuckles from several men in the room, before he grew more serious again. “But the truth is that I have never picked up the pieces before. My life has been one classroom after another. There has never been a challenge that was not neatly packaged into an exam or at worst, a difficult negotiation. But now it seems I've been quite thrown into the lurch,” he gave a grin that did not spread to his eyes. “And now I find myself leading an empire.”

“What do you know of leading?!” the Tsar challenged him. “I bet you want to retreat, just like your father!”

“A withdrawal would be the wisest conservation of resources!” King Philaemon snapped from across the table. “There is nothing to gain in Pradstan that we don’t already have!”

“Cowardice runs in Archaeon’s blood,” Tsarbisi spat. “I say, if you want the Empire to stay together, you abdicate and let us men rule in council!”

“Outrageous!” General Gallagher blustered. “This man is our Emperor, sir!” Complaints about the insult resounded around the room, and the bickering started again.

Hredon pounded his fist on the table, just once. It was enough. The mourning band was plain on his arm, and bar the Tsar of Tarriket, most men in the room still afforded him the respect required buy his title.

“Shall I get you some tea, Tsarbisi?” Hredon asked with a sneer. “Or perhaps some buttered toast? I can’t quite recall your preference.” 

The Tsar was thrown by the words, looking at the Emperor with sheer confusion that quickly bloomed into terrible understanding. The man’s fierce eyes widened to such a degree that his dramatic eye paint ceased to be so fearsome, and he bit his tongue with a curse. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Alistair to tell his spouse how he’d used sleeping drugs to bring Tarriket to heel.

Hredon straightened his back. “Pradstan has taken our Emperor,” he said. “My husband. Your leader. The city must fall, lest its arrogance fester into something that jeopardises the peace of the realm.”

“Philaemon!” his father spoke to him as a son more than an Emperor - out of shock, if nothing else. “You would have us send more men to die in Lesser Pradstan?”

“No,” Hredon said with a scowl.

“I knew it!” Tsarbisi cried, unable to contain himself. 

Hredon raised a palm to shut him up. “We do not send an army,” he clarified with determination. “An army didn’t work. A more _efficient_ approach is required.”

“So what do you suggest?” his father asked with genuine wonder.

“We burn the grain,” Hredon said soberly.

The men at the table stilled.

“We burn the grain,” he carried on. “Silo by silo, village by village. We burn the grain. They will not return when there is no grain to be had, and we need no men to guard it, nor ships to take it back home. We burn it, and drive the peasants southwest, to the stronghold. Even if each peasant leaves with a sack of grain on their backs, with so many mouths to feed, stores which might have lasted years will whittle down to months. Weeks, even, if the Unclean Diseases set in, and they may well do.”

There was some murmur of agreement and worry in equal measure around the table.

“An act of tyranny, m’lord,” General Gallagher pointed out gravely.

“Yes,” Hredon said, steeling himself. “I would see this thing done.”

Members of the Daeraedmore delegation seemed especially ill at ease. “The willful destruction of the resources of the people is in direct contravention of the Article of the Second!” one of them blurted. “It is unprincipled!”

“I am not a Keeper of the Principles,” Hredon reminded them. He swallowed. “The Keeper of the Principles is dead. This is the solution I propose, lest we tolerate Pradstan’s actions.”

“We burn the rats out,” the Tsarbisi considered, rubbing his chin. It was clear by the light in his eyes that he was fast warming to the idea. “Yes,” he said, with a wicked grin. “Yes, that will bring the city to its knees.”

Hredon couldn’t believe that he’d once found the Tsar terribly handsome. Just a few years ago, when he was younger and so much more naive, he would have thrown himself at the opportunity to take the Tsar’s hand. Oh, to be a bride of Tarriket! Forget all the money and power of such a fortuitous match - he would have gladly gone in full drag just for the finery of the traditional wedding costume alone. Now, though, when he saw the genuine bloodlust in the dark man’s eyes, he felt his stomach turn.

“Gallagher,” he said, turning to his General. “How soon can a raven reach our men?”

“As fast as a day, m’lord,” the old man answered. “Two at most, depending on the winds.”

“Send word immediately. The men are to bag their rations, then burn the rest. We move inland.”

***

That night, Hredon cried himself to sleep, for he had done a terrible and wicked thing. Yet try as he might, he could not envision any other solution. It seemed that there had been no other option than one that would cause death and suffering. He tried to console himself that for each man, woman or child who might die, a hundred or more may live, yet he wept all the same. It was a terrible burden. Was this how Alistair had felt, he wondered? Had the man’s sober attitude towards all of his own warmongering really been fraught with this same sickening uncertainty, scrabbling for some notion of a greater good in a bid to ignore the chaos he’d caused? He supposed he’d never know.

Eventually, he slept.

***

A crash in the night.

He started, unsure if the sound had been real or some parting omen from a dream. The moon was slim tonight. Peering in the darkness, he could barely make out the sleeve of his bedshirt, and that was stark white. Sitting up, he groped for the lantern on his bedside table to re-light it. He stopped dead when he felt a cool breeze tickle the back of his neck. Glancing towards its source, he could just make out the glimmer of broken glass in the bedroom’s windowpane.

_How?_ No bird could have caused so much damage. No catapult had such precision. The wall outside was a sheer, four-storey drop. He knew from his own investigation that it was an impossible climb.

There was a snort deeper inside the bedroom, and Hredon felt dread sink into his stomach. His hand, poised above the bedside table, refused to move as his instincts were flooded with conflicting fight or flight responses. There was a hulking beast in the room! He had nowhere to run, and nothing to fight with. Did he scream for the guards? Would they be able to save him? Right now, he dare not even light his lantern.

There was a loud rummaging of shelves in the shadows, then the distinct pop of a cork being pulled from a bottle. Loud, steady gulps. Hredon listened, frozen and incredulous. Not a beast, then. A man? Had he come in through the door? Could Leif be lying dead out in the hall?! His lips let out the tiniest whimper of fear before he could help himself.

The sounds of drinking stopped. Heavy, purposeful footsteps came towards him in the darkness, and a jolt of panic finally sent Hredon into motion. His hand seized the lantern and all but threw a little ball of flame towards the wick. His eyes burned as the sudden glow made his pupils contract sharply. Flinching, he turned towards the booming footsteps and screamed at the sight of two glowing, red eyes coming towards him. 

A hand over his mouth, so sudden that it stopped his cry. The lantern fell to the floor with a clatter. How had the thing moved so quickly?! Trembling, Hredon looked up at the unnatural red glow and screwed his eyes shut on instinct, trying to shake his head. They’d steal his soul if he looked, or some other peril. Wild thoughts of demons and monsters raced through his head and he managed to get the top of his jaw free, biting down on the hand that held him at the ridge between thumb and forefinger.

There was a loud hiss in his ear, and for a moment it almost felt as if the hand was pushing further into his jaw instead of pulling away. “Will you stop it!” a voice hissed in his ear. “You’re impossible!”

The familiarity of it was enough to make Hredon open his eyes. His mouth opened in a gasp, releasing the flesh and tasting the coppery tang of blood on his lips. With the lantern on the floor, the light was dim, but it was enough to make out his face. “Alistair?!”

“Don’t scream,” Alistair said again, with an air of repetition. If he’d said it earlier, Hredon hadn’t heard it. He stared at his late husband for a moment, incredulous, then slapped him across the face in a burst of anger.

The brunette snarled, grabbing his husband’s wrist. Hredon slapped him with his other hand, beating him blindly across his face and chest. “You’re supposed to be dead!” he yelled, struggling violently in the other man’s grip.

“I’m not dead!” Alistair whispered furiously, snatching for the man’s other hand. With some difficulty, he caught it, wrestling Hredon down onto the mattress and covering his mouth again. “Stop it!”

There was a loud creaking as the door to the royal chambers opened. “M’lord?” Leif, the guard, called out softly. “Are you alright?”

The two men exchanged a panicked glance and Hredon began to struggle again. Alistair did not yield: the bed was not in direct view of the door, and knowing Leif, he’d be averting his eyes. Pinning one of Hredon’s hands between their bodies, he used his thumb and forefinger to force the man’s blue eye open, gazing at him with a sudden hypnotic intensity until the man stopped struggling.

“Yes, Leif,” Hredon moaned sleepily, his body laying slack on the bed. “Just a nightmare, I think.”

There was a hum of sympathy from the door. “Shall I fetch you some water, m’lord?” the guard offered.

“No, thank you,” Hredon answered dreamily, still staring deep into Alistair’s crimson eyes. “I’ll manage.”

“If you please, m’lord. Good night,” Leif said softly. The door closed again, and Alistair looked away, his face burning with guilt. The glazed look in Hredon’s eyes quickly faded, replaced by dawning horror as he realised what had happened. With a shuddering gasp, he slapped Alistair across the face again. Hard.

“How dare you!” he hissed. At the very least, Hredon had subscribed to the volume of a whisper. He moved to strike the man again, but his wrist was caught. His wrist was caught with superhuman speed. His jaw fell slack with shock as Alistair looked at him with a morose expression.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I cannot be found. No one can know I’m here until enough time has passed for it to be feasible that I made it back alone.”

Hredon stared at him incredulously. Come to think of it, Alistair’s arrival was impossibly fast. If he had taken a cutter down the coast and come the rest of the way on horseback, perhaps one could believe his arrival was timely. But presumably, to have come all the way from Pradstan by land? Why, even if he’d had a horse, and a very good one at that, it should have taken him another week, at least! And that was without accounting for the starting circumstances of lying near-dead at the bottom of a ravine.

And then there was the tower! 

“Where is it,” Hredon demanded, suddenly pulling at the man’s tattered shirt, ripping off the few remaining buttons.

“Where’s what?” Alistair asked, confused. Despite himself, he flinched as the man exposed his chest. There was no sign of any arrow wound. 

“They said you were shot,” Hredon said suspiciously. He grabbed the man by his shoulder and forced him to turn. The gnarled flogging scars looked downright other-worldly in the dim light. He faltered at the sight of them; no arrow wound, then, but this was certainly the same man he’d married and gone to bed with some weeks ago. So, not an impostor, then, but it was also impossible that Alistair should be here right now after nearly dying in Pradstan.

“I was,” Alistair murmured, his eyes darting away. “I… I fell. But I came back.”

“Then where is the wound!” Hredon demanded.

“It’s difficult to explain,” Alistair grimaced. “Will you not just let me hold you?” he pleaded. “I’ve come all this way. I didn’t realise how much… I’d miss…” He was staring at Hredon’s collarbone. He lifted his hands and plucked at the buttons of Hredon’s nightshirt, spreading the fabric wide across his shoulders.

Hredon watched his actions with raised eyebrows, dumbstruck. There was a tenderness to the begging that was difficult not to pity. But the way he exposed him… “What--” the words fumbled in his mouth as Alistair’s lips sucked at the junction of his neck.  
  
“Please,” his husband’s breath came warm and pleading in his ear. “I can make it feel sweet again. In a way you can remember, this time.”

Hredon’s breath hitched as he realised his memories of that night had been interfered with in some way. What seemed like a dream may have actually happened after all, concealed by whatever magic had made the words that were not his own come out of his mouth just minutes ago. “How… _ah!_ ” he gasped as fangs sunk into the flesh at his neck. It wasn’t as sweet as on his wedding night, it even stung a little, but there was a horribly taboo sensation to the bite that made his squirm and curl in on himself. He squeezed his thighs together, whimpering when Alistair’s hand grazed over his stomach to cup his bare prick. 

Alistair pulled his husband close against his chest, eyes rolling back and flickering closed at the sheer ecstasy of the taste of him. Something cosmic, or chemical, or both, he supposed; in the same way that swans mated for life, no blood had tasted as sweet as Hredon’s since his wedding night. He would know: it had taken a lot to get him out of that godforsaken country. Moaning, he bit his again, feeling the man arch under the hand that roamed his pale chest. His fingers grazed against stiff, pink nubs and tugged at them gently, then harder, when the man responded favourably.

“How?” Hredon pleaded in a mewl, a deep furrow in his brow. Despite himself, he bucked into Alistair’s hand, torn between fear and arousal. The latter was quickly winning. “How?!”

“Because I love you,” Alistair promised, his lips leaving a bloody petal print on the shell of Hredon’s ear. He briefly dipped his head to lap away the warm blood seeping from the bites he’d made, inhaling the scent deeply. “I’ll never die,” he said, interspersing his words with kisses to the man’s neck. “I’ll always come back.” He teased him relentlessly. “I am yours, and you are mine.”

Hredon cried out, feeling his balls churn. Alistair smothered his climax with a deep kiss, feeding him the illicit taste of himself on his lips. He squeezed the man gently even as his prick began to soften, keeping him close. God, he was so warm. “I love you,” he repeated, lapping at the man’s neck not to feed, now, but to help the wounds heal. They’d be gone by morning, same as before. “Sleep,” he cooed. It was not a command, this time: he held him close and let him calm in the usual way, more grateful for the comforts of his husband and his bed than he could ever describe.

And Hredon, aided by the heaviness that came after orgasm, let him. He let his eyes close, letting go of the fear for just a little while. Because it would be so lovely if Alistair was alive; if he could swoop in and fix this horrible mess that he’d created by leaving him in the first place. He would be truly happy, he thought, in the lofty but decidedly more carefree role of Emperor Consort. To be loved. The fuzzy feeling chased after his slumber. He fell asleep in Alistair’s arms without saying the words back. Perhaps the trust was enough.


	16. You can't NEVER die

For the first time in his life, Hredon awoke in someone’s arms. It was a nice feeling, for want of a more poetic phrase (he didn’t have much to compare it to) but the feeling was somewhat mooted by the eerie sensation of being watched. A glance over his shoulder alerted him to Alistair’s unwavering, crimson stare. Hredon yelped in complaint, twisting away and turning to swat the man on the arm. “You!” he cried, unsure where he should start in his long list of pending accusations. He decided on the worst one. “You bit me!” he accused, rounding on the man.

Alistair made no defense. “Yes,” he said, allowing himself to be pinned to the mattress by his shoulders. He even looked away and _chuckled_ , of all things. “Yes, I did. I suppose I’m not very good at keeping secrets,” he tittered.

It had to be some kind of gallows humour. With a furrow in his brow, Hredon’s hand flew to the junction of his neck and he once again felt no pain, not even a spot of tenderness. The skin had completely healed, but there was no doubt about it: Alistair had bitten him. Alistair had _drank_ from him. “You…!” Hredon faltered again, unsure how to phrase it. He went with his initial thought. “You _drank_ me!” he hissed.

Alistair looked away, his amusement quickly fading as the reality of the situation sunk in. “... It’s how I sustain myself, unfortunately,” he admitted.

Hredon responded by promptly shoving his thumbs into the Emperor’s mouth, pulling his lips apart in an attempt to reveal his fangs. Presently, the man’s teeth appeared perfectly normal.

“It ‘oesn’t ‘ork ‘ike ‘at,” Alistair said with some difficultly, frowning.

“I demand you show me.” Hredon let the man’s face go.

“It’s not a parlour trick,” Alistair snapped.

Hredon looked at either bedside table for something sharp, that he might cut himself with it. Surely the fangs would show the second the man got a whiff of the red stuff. Naturally, there were no such items within reach. He looked down at the back of his own arm, wondering if his own blunt teeth could do the job. Alistair seemed to read his trail of thought, catching him by the wrist before he could bring it to his mouth.

“Don’t,” he said with a serious glare. “You’ve bled enough. You don’t eat enough, and there’s hardly anything of you in the first place.”

Hredon stared down at him, perturbed, the wheels rapidly turning in his mind. A mix of horror and disgust bloomed on his face as he realised something. “The nanny!” he gasped. “You’ve been drinking Hilda! Because she’s so fat!”

“Hilda is not a nanny! She’s a maid of the fifth order!” Alistair corrected him sternly. Huffing, he rolled his eyes. “But yes. She does eat like a King, after all. Or an Emperor, I suppose. She has selflessly agreed to this arrangement to provide her blood to me, for the good of the empire.”

The royal breakfasts! Hilda allegedly took them up to the Emperor every morning, as verified by the kitchen staff, but that wasn’t it at all! She ate all the rich, fine food, and then… Alistair ate _her_ , he supposed. Remembering the incredibly sexual nature of Alistair’s feeding, he looked down at the man in horror. “What precisely is the nature of this arrangement?” he asked loudly.

“Keep your voice down!” Alistair hissed, pulling a face. “Nowhere near as sexual as what you’re imagining, I’m sure,” he said, rolling over on the bed with his arms folded tightly across his chest. “I use a knife to make a cut so she may bleed into a vial,” he said stoutly. “It is _nothing_ like it was with you.”

Hredon narrowed his eyes, leaning over the sulking man. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

“Five years.”

Five years. It wasn’t hard to do the math: Daeraedmore had waged war before, here and there throughout history, but Alistair’s rampant conquering had started half a decade ago, more or less. 

“You’ve _done_ something,” he accused. “Some kind of deal with the devil.” God, he hoped the man wasn’t stupid enough to promise something like his soul. His firstborn? His fertility? It could have been anything! Was this the reason the man was so adamant that he could not produce a bastard?

“I have _not_ ,” Alistair retorted. “I’ve done precisely what I’ve needed to do. There was no _deal_.”

“You can’t _never_ die,” Hredon pointed out, recalling the words his husband had spoken last night. “That’s absurd.”

“I’m thirty-five,” Alistair countered stubbornly.

Hredon raised his eyebrows, pulling at the man’s shoulder to roll him over. “You’re never!” He stared at his face: he was no more that five years’ Hredon’s elder in visage, at the absolute most. To claim to be more than a decade older was unbelievable.

“It’s true,” Alistair said. “Search the records if you don’t believe me.”

“It would explain why you act like such a tiresome old bore,” Hredon considered, rubbing his chin. 

Alistair scoffed at the insult. “And you, such a child!” he retorted.

“You left this ‘child’ to become Emperor in your reckless absence,” Hredon reminded the man savagely. “And now you delay my dethroning. I don’t _want_ this crown, Alistair. There’s far too much war in imperial rule. My talents are better focused elsewhere.”

“Delayed in establishing pork trade with Itallyon, were you?” Alistair asked drolly.

“Yes,” Hredon cleared his throat. “Well.”

“What?” Alistair asked him seriously, staring back at him. “What have you done?”

***

“I really wish you hadn’t,” was all Alistair had to say. It was an hour or so later, and both men had dressed in their day clothes, managing without the help of any servants. Hredon had told Watsen through the door that he felt as though he had a cold. Bacon sandwiches had been left at the bedroom door. Sitting at a small, round table by the window, breakfast had not been very pleasant, given the grim news he had to deliver.

“I had no other choice,” Hredon frowned. “Tsarbisi was all but salivating for blood. So to speak,” he added, somewhat discomforted by the saying in light of what he’d recently learned about his husband.

“It’s unprincipled!” Alistair scolded him. “A direct contravention of the Article of the Second!”

Hredon grit his teeth and looked away. “Gallagher said much the same,” he said. “But I am not a Keeper of the Principles.”

“Legions of peasants will die,” Alistair said gravely.

“We’re burning the grain, not the peasants,” Hredon said defensively. “I may not have an advanced understanding of war, but I’ve read history books. We take actions to drive the common folk to the stronghold, and the increased numbers puts a strain on their resources and weakens their ability to withstand siege. It’s textbook.”

Alistair shook his head. “Maybe anywhere else,” he reasoned. “But a textbook approach will not work in Pradstan. I have every reason to believe they will let the bodies pile up at the gates rather than allow them into the city.”

“What?” Hredon asked, incredulous. “They can’t just… keep them out. They’re citizens!” He gestured vaguely with his hands. The suggestion just didn’t make sense to him.

“You’ve never been the Pradstan, I expect,” Alistair said. Had this been about anything else, he would have accused his younger husband of being naive, but the subject of Pradstan was beyond normal expectation.

“Of course not. It’s a closed border,” Hredon frowned. He thought of Derry C. Ploughman’s efforts to document the continental grain trade - even a humble scholar had been forced to seek the aid of smugglers to gain entry to the country. He couldn’t claim to be hard done by, as a traveller. He’d always been far more interested in destinations such as Itallyon, or Tarriket. Given that virtually no one had ever been to Pradstan, there were scant few tales of its fabulous agriculture or exotic wares to entice him. He’d never been one to be lured in by mystery, hence he had never been that interested in Pradstan. 

“It’s not a normal place,” Alistair said stiffly. “I would go as far as to describe it as deeply, deeply sick.”

“A plague?” Hredon jumped to the conclusion with great worry. If there was a plague in Pradstan, they shouldn’t have men across the border at all!

“It’s not an illness,” the Emperor said. “More so a mental malady, I expect. Pradstan is the reason my great, great grandfather drafted the Principles of Daeraedmore in the first place.”

“Percivius A. Daeraed was your great grandfather?” Hredon raised his eyebrows. He supposed the clue was in the name, but he could have been a great uncle, or similar.

“Yes, and my namesake.”

Keeper of the Principles, indeed!

“So we ought not burn the grain,” Hredon said, circling back to the matter at hand. “What can we possibly do, then? I recall that the initial plan was to simply _hold_ the grain, yet burned or held, either way, the peasants can’t _have_ it.”

“I had intended to ration it to the common folk,” Alistair hummed. “I’d hoped it would coax them to defect, or at the very least share information, if they had it.”

Hredon gave the man a strange look. “That’s a far more diplomatic approach than I expected of you.”

“I am not this bloodthirsty warlord you make me out to be!” Alistair hissed.

“And yet you do thirst for blood,” Hredon pointed out without missing a beat. 

Alistair groaned, getting to his feet and beginning to pace back and forth across a fine Tarriketian rug. “Tsarbisi’s the bloodthirsty one,” he grumbled. “And as long as he thinks he’s avenging the death of the Emperor, he’ll never agree to stray from our barbaric plan now.”

“So tell him you’re back,” Hredon said matter-of-factly.

“Under no circumstances!” Alistair rounded on him. “I told you. No one must know I’m back until it can believed that I made it back here as a normal man.”

“But you’re not a normal man.” Hredon stared at him.

“I shouldn’t need to explain why I need the empire to believe that I am,” Alistair huffed. “Things are delicate enough while Pradstan still stands. They don’t need to learn that their Emperor is a supernatural being.”

Hredon bit his tongue. Apparently, it was all well and good for _him_ to deal with the hardship of learning his husband may well outlive him without aging a day, but perish the thought that the Tsar of Tarriket might have to suffer the same upset. Yet as cross as he was, he could understands the differences in ramifications for such a thing. Him knowing as not the same as the entire empire knowing: it was far easier to contain. Like so many other realities of royal life, he was just going to have to grin and bear this, wasn’t he?

“Fine,” he said, growing a little cold. “Let me know if you think of a solution, then, because I certainly can’t think of one, unless you’re suggesting that we drug the Tsar again.” Getting to his feet, he dusted the remaining crumbs from his breakfast off his lap and headed for the door. He made it halfway before Alistair caught his shoulder. He came up behind him rather silently, and it rattled Hredon’s nerves.

“I mean it, Hredon,” Alistair told him with a stern gaze. “ _No one_ must know. Not Finnian, not _anyone_.”

Hredon’s nose wrinkled. Perhaps he should have asked Alistair to take his eye drops after all - the red eyes were certainly difficult to get accustomed to. “ _Yes_ ,” he said crisply. “You’ve made that rather clear.” He pushed the man away and carried on towards the door. “Enjoy wallowing,” he called back. “I’ll be enjoying the fresh air.” 

***

As if he would ever burden his oldest and dearest friend with such terrible news. The notion was absurd. No; it was an old friend he would seek out, but old in a very different sense of the word. 

The chime on the door tinkled as Hredon pushed his way into the apothecary. For once, there were other customers being served by Attie at the counter, so he milled at the back of the store, pretending to peruse a range of scented oils. Given the nature of his own business there (and previously) he certainly didn’t want to lurk within earshot of other people. Once the couple had left with brown paper packages tucked under their arms, Hredon approached the counter.

“Congratulations are in order, I think,” the old woman’s face creased as she beamed at the man. “We heard the wedding bells throughout the city. Are you enjoying married life, your Imperial Highness?”

Hredon paused, caught off guard by the question. Given the recent news of Alistair’s supposed death, it was very strange to be discussing their wedding with the supposed widower. She’d used the wrong title, too. It then occurred to him that the general populace had no idea that their Emperor was rumoured to be dead: obviously, such news would have been a devastating blow to the empire. He’d been crowned, yes, in a furtive ceremony attended only by military officials, castle staff and Tsarbisi, but he had no made decrees or public announcement. He’d been so busy, the thought had never occurred to him. The generals must have kept it a secret. If that had, it was convenient, but it also struck Hredon that he was an even worse Emperor than he thought. He’d be much better of once Alistair made his grand return.

“Erm, yes,” he cleared his throat, forcing a small smile. “As much as I can, anyway, with my beloved galloping off to war every chance he gets.” That would be something he’d say, if the circumstances were different.

Attie tittered, beckoning Hredon through the small gap in the counter to the workshop at the back of the store. “Come, come,” she said. “How can old Attie help today? If you need more bruise cream, perhaps it can be a wedding present.”

“No cream, I think,” Hredon said evasively, thinking about how Alistair’s spit worked even better than the miraculous salve. “Just a spot of conversation, I think. One gets lonely, and I’ve read some disturbing passages in the library that I hope you might be able to shed some light on.” He wasn’t, of course, going to come right out and say that Alistair was back and allegedly impossible to kill. Simply reading about an unkillable creature was the best lie that Hredon could come up with on short notice. 

“Oh?” Attie asked, already drifting towards the kettle. Hredon took his usual seat at the work bench while the old witch set about fetching cups and measuring out tea leaves. “You didn’t strike me as the fearful type, child. What mere book could make a fire-maker afraid?”

“It’s surely fiction,” Hredon’s eyes dragged along the over-stuffed apothecary shelves, unable to distinguish their contents due to the dozens of identical snake-and-eye labels. “Unless it’s not.”

“Do tell.”

Hredon took a deep breath, hoping he’d be able to sell it convincingly. “The passage spoke,” he began, “of a creature that sustains itself on human blood. I did notice that the streets of Daeraedmore are especially quiet at night, so I wonder if there’s any truth in it.”

“There’s more than one creature on this earth with a taste for blood,” Attie mused without turning around. “The mosquitoes are especially bad in summer. Leeches, too, if you swim in the lake at the wrong time of year.”

Hredon realised he hadn’t quite made his point. “No,” he shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. “This was something a lot bigger than a leech, I’m afraid. The book said it appeared as a man. A man who cannot die.”

Attie paused in her work, looking over her shoulder with a furrowed brow. It was her milky eye that faced him, but nevertheless her expressed conveyed the suitable amount of concern. “Oh?” she said. “Attie has heard of these creatures, yes, but they are very old. From another age.” Her words hung mysteriously in the air as the kettle began to boil.

“So… they did exist,” Hredon concluded with a face full of worry.

“So they say, so they say…” Attie said serenely. The whistling of the kettle distracted her, and she turned back to the bench to pour the tea. 

“If these creatures cannot die,” Hredon reasoned, “surely, even the ones who were alive an age ago would still be alive today.” Could there be more than one creature like Alistair? If they were, how ancient and wise they must be! Hredon himself could barely comprehend himself growing to be his father’s age; the idea of living for centuries was unimaginable. 

“No,” Attie said gravely. “All mad; all dead. Unaging, but not unsuffering. They may not die of natural causes, but they can still be killed. By their own hands, I expect, in the end. The mind is not meant to last so long.”

Attie sounded more than just a little knowledgeable on the matter. Perhaps there really was a book on the subject on these creatures; at least within the city, if not within the castle. “What a horrible fate,” he said, trying to look only slightly sympathetic. He wasn’t meant to actually _know_ one of these creatures, after all; least of all have one as his husband. 

“Not horrible,” Attie corrected him. “Not pleasant, either. Simply preordained. The path for all of us is set long before we are born. All we can do is play our part.” She turned with a small, green cup steaming in her gnarled hands, smiling as he brought it over to the man. “There’s no turning back now.”

Hredon was beginning to lose the meaning of the old woman’s words again. He managed a thin smile and what he hoped looked like an understanding nod, distracting himself with gently blowing on the surface of his tea. Bright yellow and aromatic: chamomile, again. The scent was comforting and familiar. He breathed in the steam and took a careful sip. “Thank you.”

“You’ve nothing to fear, Hredon Daeraed,” Attie told him from her side of the workbench. “The creatures will not harm you.”

“Oh,” Hredon raised his eyebrows. “I never formally took my husband’s name.” He may have foregone the throne of Archaeon, but he had not eschewed its namesake. The matter had gone uncontested even with Alistair himself. It was no wonder, in hindsight: if Alistair expected to live forever, then it followed that Hredon would never truly take the empire’s throne. 

“You will.” Attie smiled.

Hredon took another sip of tea, wondering what she meant. It was strange: it was barely past lunchtime, yet he found himself feeling sleepy. “Yes, well…” he murmured, searching for the question that had been on the tip of his tongue. It occurred to him, moments too late, that the feeling of familiarity wasn’t simply because of the chamomile tea. He’d been drugged in the same way before, and even as the stab of panic made his arm spasm and drop the tea cup, he found it difficult to keep his eyes open.

“These things have been preordained,” the witch cooed, and Hredon’s vision faded to black.


	17. The Undying Age

Hredon awoke on the floor in a dimly lit chamber where the roof was made of earth. Despite the dark, the room was warm, most likely owing to the dozens of candles that surrounded him, giving the room its flickering, orange glow. He opened his eyes fully when he felt a tugging sensation at his scalp, and heard the tell-tale snip of scissors. Gasping, he tried to twist in the direction of the sound and found his body held fast in place by iron chains. That wasn’t good. He turned just his head and saw Attie kneeling, her green shop dress replaced by a deep, scarlet robe, patiently cutting away locks of his hair.

“It will grow back,” she told him, only pausing in her work to avoid Hredon’s thrashing.

“Unchain me at once!” Hredon demanded, baring his teeth. A dozen other speeches were on his tongue, questions, and profanities, mostly, but this seemed to be the most important one. He couldn’t burn his way through iron - but Attie knew that, didn’t she? What a fool he’d been!

“In good time,” was the witch’s serene answer. “In good time.”

“All of this is necessary,” a new voice added as a man approached the circle of candles. Hredon glanced his way and was shocked to recognise him from none other than their wedding ceremony. The master of ceremonies! Why, he was still wearing the very same burgundy robe! Carrying a small wooden bowl, the old man sat on Hredon’s other side. He dipped a paintbrush into the glistening liquid before reaching out, dragging the bristles from Hredon’s forehead down to the tip of his nose. The man was so shocked that he allowed the act before he even thought to protest. Once the idea occurred to him, his struggles renewed with vigour, making Attie pause in her cutting once more.

“Who are you people?!” Hredon spat, pulling uselessly against the chains. 

“We,” the old man and woman answered in unison. “We.” And that was all they said. 

Thoroughly unnerved, Hredon looked at them as though they’d grown a second head. “You’re both mad!” he accused.

“More than two of us,” the man countered without missing a beat. When he spoke quietly, his voice was husky - it might have been soothing, in very different circumstances. 

“And we are very old,” Attie added. “And some of us do wander…”

“But we are necessary, and we are kind,” the man declared, moving on to painting Hredon’s bare chest in ancient runes. “You should remember that, fire-maker.”

“What kindness is this?!” Hredon cried, flinching as Attie cut another lock of his hair. “What are you going to do with me?!” He hoped, in his panic, that he wasn’t going to die like this. It will grow back, Attie had said. Surely that meant that whatever this was, he would live to tell the tale. Right? 

“You will make the same sacrifice as your husband,” Attie told him. “The pair of you will rule side by side for centuries.”

“The Undying Age,” the old man chimed in wistfully.

Undying. Hredon’s blood ran cold. They meant for him to become the same sort of creature as Alistair? One that drank blood to survive? It sounded horrible! “I don’t want to!” he yelled, trying to pull away from the ever-insistent scissors. “Let me go!”

“You’re a child, still,” the old man rebuked him. “But the wisdom will come in time. You will have a lot of time.”

“No!”

“No more war, no more tyranny…” Attie’s face leaned over his, her eyes full of wonder. “I have seen it, child. I have seen centuries of peace and prosperity, as if in a dream. And it can be real. But for that, you must bleed.”

The man painted a final circle on his chest, right over Hredon’s heart. Hredon squirmed at the feeling of the sticky liquid on his skin, imagining it was some kind of terrible concoction made with blood. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he whimpered, watching Attie rise and move to the wall behind him. “Alistair has already chosen his lot! You don’t need me as well!”

“The people cannot know their Emperor is undying until peace has already been achieved,” Attie said gravely. “They will not accept him otherwise. And a secret shared is a secret kept, after all.”

“I won’t tell anyone!” Hredon pleaded.

"You already did."

Hredon cringed at the woman's reply, knowing it to be true. He'd told Attie, however indirectly, that he was aware that such creatures existed, and now it seemed he was doomed to become one of them himself. Trembling, he watched as the old man lifted the paintbrush to his own forehead and drew a snaking line down his own forehead. It wasn’t blood at all: it was green. The snake. Of course. Disturbed, he watched the man rise and join Attie behind his head. When she stepped back into his line of sight, she bore the same mark on her own face, and she was holding a bronze circlet in her hand.

“Behold,” she said, turning the object in her hands. “The true crown of Daeraedmore.” 

Alistair's crown wasn't authentic? With an equal mix of horror and confusion, Hredon stared up at the relic in Attie's hands. It looked much, much older than the polished white-gold helmet that his husband had worn on their wedding day, but that wasn't due to damage or any lack of care. Made of a simple bronze, the spiked crown had etchings that were partially worn away inside the band, and the largest, middle spike was in the fashion of the serpent, albeit with an awfully sharp tail. Hredon tensed as he saw the woman turn the crown upside down and tighten her grip. Her eyes were on his chest!

"No!" He screamed, thrashing helplessly as the old woman fell to her knees and brought the spike crashing down. Hredon screwed his eyes shut and prepared for pain that never came. Something warm dripped onto his chest. When he dared open his eyes again, he gasped at the sight of Alistair, every muscle in his arms tensed as he stopped the crown from piercing Hredon’s chest. Then his stomach turned as he saw that the smaller spikes on the circlet had pierced through the Emperor’s palms, his blood dripping down onto Hredon’s skin.

Despite the pain, Alistair’s voice was surprisingly calm. “I won’t allow it,” he said, crimson eyes boring into Attie’s.

“You delay the inevitable, dear,” Attie said sternly, but she relinquished her hold on the crown with her weathered hands.

Looming over Hredon possessively, the vampire wrinkled his nose as he pulled his hands back from the copper spikes, one by one. Once the wounds were free from the metal, they began to close up slowly: from this close, Hredon could see it happening. He didn’t know whether he felt fascinated or disgusted.

“Bound by marriage, and bound by blood,” the old master of ceremonies lectured, getting up from the floor where Alistair had knocked him back in his rush forward. “You must unite in immortality, also, or you are destined for the madness of heartbreak.” 

“I’ve already made Hredon do something he didn’t want to do,” Alistair sneered. “I’ll not make that mistake again.”

Swallowing, Hredon found his voice. “You… you let them do this to you?!” he asked, horrified. Why would Alistair let these mad people turn him into an undying creature?! All on the promise of a seer’s vision of everlasting peace? Well, lasting enough, he supposed. 

“I didn’t need to be chained,” Alistair said, looking down at the state of Hredon with great distaste. He pulled up one of the stakes that had been driven deep into the earth as though it were a trifling thing, doing the same on Hredon’s other side. With enough slack in the chains, Hredon wriggled free, glad to have the iron away from his skin.

“You did something to us,” Alistair rounded on the old man with a furrowed brow. “Something more than wedding vows.”

“The blood emeralds,” the old man said shamelessly, nodding towards the wedding band on Alistair’s finger. “To create a stronger affinity for one another.”

“We deal in probabilities, not absolutes,” Attie chimed in, turning back to the bench that ran along the wall. “We must take measures to keep fate on the right path.”

Sitting up on the floor, Hredon rubbed his aching head and looked around, still not having the faintest idea where they were. Surely, they had to be underground, but where? Underneath the apothecary, perhaps? How on earth did Alistair find him down here?

“We did not need any extra help!” Alistair snapped, indignant. 

Attie cackled. “Trust me, dear, you did,” she told the man. She spoke to him with no reverence for his rank, but Hredon supposed that she did exactly the same with him, too. “You had no hope of containing his raw power!”

It was here that Alistair faltered, his anger replaced by disbelief. “Hredon? Power?” he asked with a huff of laughter. He looked to the slender man on the floor: he had an unrivalled temper, perhaps, but surely no power to speak of, in the physical sense of the word.

Attie, who had taken the scissors from the bench, snuck up on Hredon and snipped the blades close to his ear. Hredon, who was understandably on edge after recent events, screamed and slapped the blades away, where they clattered to the floor in a ball of blue flames. The blades grew red hot and fused together, well, because he wanted them too, he supposed. It was difficult to describe his affinity with his own flames, especially when he felt like he was still in the process of learning about that, himself. One could only sneak away to so many midnight training sessions with the Order of the Hand over the course of one’s adolescence, after all. He stared down at the melting spectacle before he looked at the old woman in horror. “I could have killed you!” he cried.

“I’m a seer, child,” Attie reminded him. 

“You said yourself you don’t deal in absolutes!” Hredon screeched, pointing a shaking finger at her.

“All probabilities,” the old woman waved him away.

Alistair stared down at the burning scissors as though they were a star that had fallen straight out of the sky. He looked at Hredon with an expression of profound disbelief. “How?!” he demanded.

“Your husband is a fire maker,” Attie informed the Emperor bluntly. “You think Fate chose him at random? The righteous fire runs in his blood!”

“They’re a family of sailors!” Alistair protested.

“Fire makers!” Attie snapped back, pointing a gnarled hand at Hredon. “The fire runs through his mother’s familial line. It is as old as Archaeon itself!”

Hredon blinked. It was true that the royal Archaeon lineage went back so far that it seemed to predate the city’s own history tomes, but had his own mother really had magic, too? He’d never seen it, but then again, he’d only ever known her as a child. If he’d ever glimpsed fire made by his mother’s hands, it was possible that it had been lost to the primal memory soup that made up so much of one’s childhood. He remembered the sound of her voice, mostly. Lullabies, and bedtime stories.

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?!” Alistair complained loudly. 

“It would have changed your plans,” Attie glowered.

Alistair looked at Hredon in wonder. “Can the flames be weaponised?” he asked, noting the longevity of the burning lump of metal on the ground.

“...Perhaps,” Hredon said evasively, quickly growing uncomfortable with the notion. Truth be told, they could: the flames could be bottled, as long as the necks were left open to allow the fire to breath. The act of producing them en masse, however, would most likely leave him a drained husk of a man. Acting on the sage advice of the old mages in the Order of the Hand, he kept such facts to himself.

“Flames will not be your victory!” Attie scolded the man, hitting him on the shoulder with a closed fist. “Stay on the true path!”

“My ‘true path’ grows more dubious every day, with your meddling,” Alistair growled, getting to his feet. He kept a tight grip on the old crown of Daeraedmore. “I’m keeping this,” he warned the old mages. “And you will leave us well alone.”

“‘Tis not destined for your head,” the old man said snidely.

“His, then,” Alistair gestured to Hredon gruffly, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet. “Come on, Hredon.” 

“What?!” Hredon struggled to get his feet properly under him as Alistair was already dragging him towards a door at the far end of the chamber. “A-Alistair!” He still wanted answers! What else did Attie and the old man think was pre-ordained?! How were they supposed to fix all this?! Surely they could tell them! “What else do they know?”

“Now is not the time,” Alistair hissed, pushing their way through the door and leading him up a winding, stone staircase. “And the seers do not have all the answers. If they did, everything would be so much easier, instead of… all this,” he clicked his tongue. When he opened to door leading outside, the sky was growing dark. It was almost nightfall, and Hredon let out a small cry of outrage as it was revealed that they had been underneath Daeraedmore’s graveyard. 

“We were in the catacombs?!” His skin crawled at the thought of all the dead bodies that must have surrounded them.

“Where else would they do it?” Alistair asked, looking at him as though it should be obvious. “Come on.” He led the man along a winding, cobbled path towards a thick line of trees, intending to take the back alleys back to the castle. He released Hredon’s hand only to pull a black hood up to better obscure his face. “You are such a handful,” he muttered.

“Did you follow me?” Hredon asked, looking at the man with disbelief. It was a wonder that he had found him so quickly, if at all. He could have very well been undead by now.

“Not at first,” Alistair grumbled. “But in my own company, my suspicions grew stronger. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stand keeping such information to yourself.”

“But how did you find me?”

“Hrm.” Alistair frowned, searching for the right words. “Your blood,” he said, finally. “I can… feel it, almost. Like a sense of knowing one’s right from one’s left. Even all the way in Pradstan, I could feel it, pointing me towards you like a compass.”

Bound in blood, the old man had said. Hredon pressed his lips together as he considered the matter. Yet if Alistair could inexplicably know where he was from his blood, then it followed that he should be able to do the same. “I can’t feel anything special about your blood, and I’m walking right next to you,” he complained.

“Well,” Alistair looked away with a frown. “You’re not a vampire.” The word ‘yet’ threatened to slip from his tongue but he held it back behind a clenched jaw. The last thing he needed was to set off the man’s temper; or worse, make him afraid. 

“Is that the word for it?” Hredon raised his eyebrows.

“Yes.”

Some time passed before either man spoke again, and this time, it was Alistair who broke the silence. “So you make fire, then?” he asked, looking back at Hredon as he led them along a dark alleyway. “Have you always been able to do it?”

“Y-yes, more or less,” Hredon admitted sheepishly. It felt very odd to be talking about it with someone other than Finnian, or another mage. “The first time, I was eight years old, I think. That was when the first nanny quit.”

Alistair let out a huff of sympathy for the poor soul who had to wrangle such a terrible child, one setting fires, no less. His imagination ran wild with the possibilities for his husband’s powers. “Can you self-immolate?” he asked, overcome with morbid curiosity.

“If would be unwise,” Hredon answered, looking wary. “But yes, I have; standing naked, in the sea.”

“It’s no wonder the witch considers you part of her prophecy.” Alistair murmured, his eyes widening as he imagined such an incredible sight: a burning, yet undying, man.

Hredon could not contain himself any longer. “Why did you let them do it?!” he cried. “How could you let them turn you into such a thing?!”

“You don’t know the witch like I do,” Alistair told him, his expression growing brooding again. “I’m sure you opinion of her may have soured after tonight, but she and her kin are pillars of the community. I have every belief that her prophecies are true.”

“The Undying Age?” Hredon asked, remembering what Attie had said. “What does that even mean? How can one man rule for an entire age? Even if you don’t age, the people will revolt when you fail to pass on the crown in the natural way. They won’t accept it!”

“They will,” Alistair said, gritting his teeth. “I just have to complete the Empire.”

“You mean Pradstan.” Hredon said. Alistair stopped walking so suddenly that Hredon bumped into him. He steadied himself on the man’s back, feeling the unevenness of his flesh through his clothes. 

“Do not mention that place right now,” Alistair said distastefully.

“Pradstan gave you these scars,” Hredon drew the conclusion suddenly, his mismatched eyes growing wide in the dim light. Alistair didn’t turn around, but his husband stared at the back of his head intently. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Alistair’s hand tightened into a fist around the crown of his ancestors. “... Yes,” he said finally, his voice cold. “And for that, I will see every nobleman hanged. But all of this is not merely for my sake. I want you to understand that.”

“I do,” Hredon said, and he did: he could understand, very clearly, just how much Alistair cared about the wellbeing of his Empire, servants and peasants and all other common folk included. His convictions were made clear by his sacrifices.

“Good,” Alistair said. He turned back just enough to take Hredon’s hand in his own, carrying on down the cramped street. “Now we just have to figure out a way to keep all the grain from burning.”


	18. Immolate

This was an incredibly stupid idea.

Barely even washed from the green ooze the old witches had painted him with, and his hair still so frightful from Attie’s hatchet job that he dared not even look in the direction of a mirror, Hredon crept through the old woods feeling so much like a fiend. He lit his way by the light of his own hand, and once he found the clearing with the old, dead tree that Alistair had described, he extinguished the light and of all things, began to strip.

It was a very stupid idea indeed, to have the acting Emperor stripping nude in the middle of the woods in the pitch black of night. All of this was stupid, yet however stupid it was, lives were on the line, and so he did what he could. He prayed to God or the fate-snakes or whatever other deities there may be that it actually worked.

He brought his hands to his scalp and fretted while he waited, leaning his bare arse against the smooth, dead bark of the tree. It didn’t feel good: the witch, having assumed the hair would grow back with a fresh burst of vitality as he transitioned into the afterlife, had cut away at his hair in reckless and uneven patches. There’d scarcely be anything left by the time a proper hairdresser got it looking presentable. A small piece of him even considered making the jump to becoming a vampire just to avoid the agony of dealing with such an ugly haircut. Perhaps that had been old Attie’s plan all along.

Mercifully, Hredon was not left to stew about this for too long. It was a half hour at most before the crunch of leaves and twigs under heavy footsteps made the naked Emperor Consort catch his breath and shrink back into the shadows to avoid being seen. Peeking out from behind the tree trunk, he made out Alistair’s pale face in the moonlight. And no wonder his footsteps were heavy, because he was only carrying the Tsar of Tarriket over his shoulder!

“What are you doing?!” Hredon hissed, coming out from around the dead tree. “You said you were bringing Tsarbisi, I didn’t think you meant like a sack of potatoes!”

Alistair gave him a strange look. “He’s drugged,” he said.

Unbelievable! The second-most powerful warlord in the nation, drugged for a second time! “What is it with you and drugging the Tsar?!” he snapped, throwing his hands up.

“Why are you naked?” Alistair countered.

Hredon blinked. “Well, of course,” he said, as though it were obvious. “I’m not burning my clothes.”

“I didn’t think you’d need to be naked,” Alistair said, carefully setting the taller man down on the ground so he was lying on his back. “Can’t you just… not burn your clothes?”  
  
“Oh, silly me!” Hredon rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t I think of that?!” Honestly, what did Alistair think, that this was his first time using his powers? “That’s not how it works,” he told him.  
  
“Fine,” Alistair sighed. “Go on, then: light yourself.”  
  
“Now hang on just a minute,” Hredon put his hands on his hips. “I can’t sustain that much fire indefinitely. When is he going to wake up?”

Alistair frowned, crouching and leaning over Tsarbisi to inspect his sleeping face. “He should start to wake up soon,” he determined, reaching down to lift one of the man’s eyelids with his thumb. He was still unresponsive, so far. 

“Run me through the plan again,” Hredon muttered, his brow creased with worry.

Alistair sighed, shifting onto his knees to get more comfortable. “I can use my abilities to place Tsarbisi in a dream-like state,” he explained. “We need you to resemble something like a terrible omen, or perhaps an angel, and tell him not to burn the grain. Then perhaps, when he wakes up, he’ll be more amenable to simply holding the grain once more.”  
  
It was an incredibly, incredibly stupid idea.

“What if he wakes up? Properly, I mean,” Hredon winced, looking down at the Tsar. “It didn’t take me long to figure out what was a dream and what wasn’t.”

“Do you have any other ideas?” Alistair groused.

Hredon scowled, letting silence be his answer.

“Then it looks like we’re doing this, then,” the vampire asserted. Below him, the Tsar murmured in his sleep.

“Fine,” Hredon sighed. He moved further away from the two men, and the tree, out into the clearing where there were no low-hanging branches that might catch alight. He really would have preferred to be standing in the sea, or perhaps the shores of a lake, but they were pressed for time. “Let me know when he wakes up.” 

He raised his hands to his forehead, taking a deep breath. It was always easier to start from the top and work his way down.

“Wait!” Alistair whispered at the last moment.

Hredon paused, annoyed. “What?”

“You should know that his name is Adeyemi,” Alistair said.

Adeyemi? Hredon, who was very familiar with Tarriket’s culture for he found it so enchanting, squirmed at the knowledge. “Good god!” he whispered, offended. “Why not just rip the man’s turban off, while we’re at it?!” And how the _hell_ had Alistair become privy to that information, anyway?! Tsarbisi’s first name was never to be whispered outside of the royal harem; the book detailing the record of his birth, along with all his royal lineage, was kept locked up with the rest of Tarriket’s greatest treasures.

“Will you just trust me!” Alistair hissed. “You only need to use it this once.”

“I’ll still know it after that,” Hredon complained. Yet another burden to live with. Secrets were no fun when the stakes were this high: he much preferred something lighter, like the time Watsen told him that Snitch’s first girlfriend had dumped him.

Just then, Tsarbisi’s eyelids flickered, as if threatening to open. Both men hushed and Alistair leaned over him quickly, looking down at the man with an unwavering, crimson stare. When the Tarriket king’s eyes opened, a hypnotic red gaze was the first thing he saw, and it locked onto him quickly.

“I am not here,” Alistair murmured in his eerie, echoing whisper. The purr almost sounded like two voices at once, just ever so slightly out of time with each other. “You are not here.”  
  
“I’ve been here before,” Tsarbisi insisted quietly, his eyes barely open. Alistair thought it was best not to fight it.

“Yes,” he agreed. “In a dream.”

“In a dream…”

Hredon steeled himself, setting both palms alight with an ethereal orange flame that glowed blue at the centre. It was time to put all of those acting and composure lessons to good use. He only hoped that he wouldn’t sound too much like himself, that he might jog the Tsar’s memory later. Smoothing his palms over his messy hair as though it were bath oil, he left behind flames in their wake. He found it easier to go through a process like this, rather than simply turn himself on and off like a light switch. It was one of many practices he had developed with the wise old mages at the Order of the Hand. 

He turned away from the pair of them for the meantime, finding it more comfortable that way. Once his head was encased in a helmet of flame (his mouth free to speak, of course), he ran his palms over his shoulders, snaking down each arm and leg in succession. He need not cover every inch of himself, for once he brought the flame to enough of his chest and back, the flames spread and sought each other out, covering any gaps of bare skin.  
  
Hredon himself felt quite comfortable, not feeling the heat in the slightest, but he could already see a sheen of sweat raised on Alistair and Tsarbisi’s faces. Glancing upwards, he could see the peak of the flames cracking from his body reached up a good two metres or so. Not high enough to reach the tree branches overhead, fortunately. His flames were seldom jumpers, but he was keen to get this over and done with as soon as possible.

He turned back to Alistair, having been too distracted to listen to what his husband had been telling the Tsar to convince him that none of this was real. Whatever he’d said, it must have worked, for Tsarbisi’s dark eyes were wide with wonder and his jaw hung slack, illuminated by the glow of Hredon’s fire. The problem was that Alistair’s expression was much the same: the man’s deathly pallor had even gained a bit of pink to it, thanks to the heat. He stared at spectacle, forgetting himself. He’d imagined the immolation, of course, but it fell far short of the reality of it. The way it made the very air around the flaming man seem to warp and waver like a mirage in the desert.

“It’s a miracle,” Tsarbisi said breathlessly. When he sat up, the flames casting sharp shadows on the features of his face. Owing to the fact that he had been sleeping, his face was clear of paints or any other decoration that would make his expression seem angrier or more fearsome than usual, and his whole-hearted belief was plain to see.

What was Hredon to say? Even with the flames, summoning all the flair for drama and acting that his upbringing afforded him, he doubted he could terrify a man such as Tsarbisi. But he could be… insistent, certainly. Insistence was his specialty.

“You,” he began, lifting his arm and pointing a fiery finger at Tsarbisi, “you, who dares to inhabit Daeraedmore soil.”

A wide, sleepy smile spread across the Tsar’s shining face. “Yes,” he agreed. “They say that I am daring.”

“You, who dares burn the grain.”

The Tsar inclined his head at this accusation. “Not I,” he said. “The boy-king.”

Fortunately, the fire hid most of Hredon’s sneer. It was no surprise what the Tsar thought of him, anyway, so he pressed on. “You goad him,” he insisted, “You spoil him. You burn the fruits of the land.”

“Does this not please you?” Tsarbisi upturned his palms. “Does the grain not return to the great fire?”

Did he think Hredon was the apparition of a god, was that it? Was the grain some kind of offering, in his mind? Hredon grit his teeth, frantically searching for the right words. What would Attie say at a time like this?!

“Flames will not be your victory, Adeyemi!” he boomed. The flames swelled with the outburst, creating a flare that towered over the group of mean and caught alight on the branches far overhead. Swearing under his breath, Alistair got up from the ground and began to climb the tree at an unnatural speed, intent on extinguishing the branch himself before it could spread.  
  
True to Hredon’s expectations, Tsarbisi did not scream. If anything, he looked keen: his smile persisted, his teeth gleaming int he firelight. “It has been a long time since the gods have said my name,” he purred. 

“Do not presume to know the gods,” Hredon sneered.

“But I do,” Tsarbisi answered, showing his palms again as though the fact were plain. To Hredon’s right, there was a loud thud as Alistair dropped to the ground, the charred remains of a tree branch still smoking in his hand. He straightened up, looking down at Tsarbisi with his crimson eyes glowing in the darkness. The Tsar looked between them without fear. “I am Adeyemi,” he boasted, “and I am favoured by all the gods.”

“Then do as we heed,” Alistair told him, his voice still a shadowy whisper. “And do not burn the grain.”

“And what would the gods have me do?” Tsarbisi asked, intrigued. “How do we crush our enemies without the fire?”

“The mark,” Hredon spoke up, the idea coming to him all at once. Unable to approach Tsarbisi in his current state, he lifted his had and drew a snaking symbol in the air. The glow of it lingered for a moment before it dissipated. Watching his husband intently, Alistair realised what he was doing. He walked forward, biting the tip of his thumb under his teeth. 

“The snake,” Alistair agreed, crouching down before Tsarbisi and reaching out to his face.

“The snake eats the rat,” Tsarbisi chuckled, letting the pale man draw the winding symbol on his forehead in his own blood. 

“Fate is coming for Pradstan,” the vampire said, staring deep into the Tsar’s eyes. “Sleep, but do not forget.”

Tsarbisi’s eyelids grew heavy, and his body fell slack in Alistair’s grip. The Emperor carefully lowered him to the ground, turning back to his husband. “I think that worked,” he said.

With a heavy sigh, Hredon extinguished himself, hunching forward with his hands on his knees and panting as though he had just ran all the way here from the castle. “I hope so. I don’t think I could keep that up much longer.”

“You nearly burned down the entire forest,” Alistair pointed out mildly, dropping the burned branch onto the ground. 

“Do shut up,” Hredon groaned, forcing himself to straighten up. God, he was _starving_. He was going to have to start taking more meals, if his life was to become this adventurous. “And we’re still not even done,” he complained.

“What do you mean?” Alistair asked, pausing before he picked up Tsarbisi again. “All I’ve got to do is take him back to his rooms. I can climb up to his window one-handed.”  
  
“Not that,” Hredon shook his head with a frown, running his fingers through his horribly uneven hair again. “ _This_ . How the _hell_ am I to explain this monstrosity to the court?”

“What?” Alistair looked thoroughly nonplussed.

“My hair!” Hredon cried. “It’s hideous!”

“So what?” Alistair scoffed. “It will grow back.”

“Yes, but it won’t grow back overnight.” Hredon glared at him.

There _was_ a way to make it grow back overnight, but as it involved becoming an undead creature, Alistair didn’t think it was an appropriate suggestion. “It’s the Emperor’s prerogative to have whatever haircut he pleases,” he reasoned. “Just have your servant fix it. The thin one… the ‘bootler’.”

It was Hredon’s turn to scoff as he trudged back to his clothes and started to get dressed again. “Please! I’ll come out worse than when I started.” Watsen, with a pair of scissors! He might as well have sought a haircut from a weasel.

“What, then?” Alistair asked. “Are we to shave you?”

“Certainly not.” Hredon wrinkled his nose. “There is, of course, only one establishment where a man can obtain a haircut without questions being asked and without rumours being spread.”

Alistair gave him a funny look, not able to draw the conclusion that his husband was referring to. Until he could. “No,” he said, looking perturbed.

“Yes,” Hredon insisted.

***

Far away from the woods and the crypts and all the other chaos of that evening, on a very well-to-do lane in Daeraedmore’s merchant district, Finnian Greenbay was blissfully asleep in his bed, surrounded by dozens of pillows and soft blankets. His last client for the evening had left hours ago, and he had taken a long, hot bath as he usually did, dressed in his cosiest blue cotton nightshirt, and gone to bed. He was usually a sound sleeper, but in early hours of the morning, some time before the first signs of dawn began to glow on the horizon, a sound made him stir.

Rolling over onto his side with a sleepy groan, he rubbed his cheek against his silk pillowcase, having half a mind to simply doze off again. That was, until, his blue eyes cracked open enough to perceive the dark shape of a man standing over his his bed. He jerked awake with a scream.

“Finnian,” Hredon said.

Finnian rolled up onto his knees and slapped Hredon on the shoulder. “Don’t give me such a fright!” he scolded his friend, pulling his nightshirt further up over his freckled shoulders. “How did you even get in?!”

“We climbed through the window,” Alistair announced his presence at the end of Finnian’s bed, his red eyes still vivid in the dimly lit room.

Finnian screamed again and pitched a tasselled pillow square at the Emperor’s face. Alistair caught it, letting it drop onto the ground with a sigh.

“Who is _that_?!” Finnian demanded, scrambling back against his headboard and grabbing Hredon’s arm. “What’s wrong with him?!”

“It’s Alistair,” Hredon tutted. “And he’s fine. I’m ever so sorry for the intrusion, Finnian, but we had no other choice.”

Finnian huffed, twisting towards his nightstand and fumbling with his matches. He gave up on his second attempt to light a match. “Will you get that for me, please?” he asked, waving one hand in the direction of his lantern as he rubbed his face with the other.

“Of, of course.” Hredon lit the tip of his finger and used it to light the lantern. Once the room was considerably brighter, Finnian lifted his head, his hand still covering his mouth as he regarded Alistair with a suspicious scowl.  
  
“His eyes are the wrong colour,” the redhead announced.  
  
“Yes, well, he uses eye drops from the apothecary, usually,” Hredon said awkwardly.

“He’s not _meant_ to even _be_ in Dreadmore, Philaemon,” Finnian shot his friend a glare.

“I suppose we’ll need to induct you into fifth order, Mr. Greenbay,” Alistair said drolly.

“What’s that?” Hredon asked. It rang a bell, but he couldn’t recall where from.  
  
“It means you can be trusted with imperial secrets,” Finnian piped up, looking between the two men with an expression that a mix between intrigue and mild outrage. He couldn’t imagine what the hell he’d need it for. “I’ve never even had a client who was above fourth order,” he said. “Lots of thirds, though. You have to be third order just to work at the castle at all.”

“Hilda is a maid of the fifth order,” Alistair offered up the example patiently.

“Are _my_ servants fifth order?” Hredon asked out of curiousity. Watsen, perhaps, but he couldn’t imagine Snitch being trusted with anything. 

“No.”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Hredon bickered.

“If I might cut in,” Finnian piped up, pulling his bedcovers back over his bare legs in the Emperor’s presence. “What the bloody hell are you both doing here?!”

“Ah.”

***

“Unbelievable,” Finnian clicked his tongue. “I _knew_ you’d find a way to get yourself into trouble, but this really takes the cake.”

“How is it my fault?!” Hredon complained, earning himself a flick on the nose.  
  
“Hold still,” Finnian told him. Owing to his profession, he possessed all manner of tools for primping and preening - hairdresser’s scissors included. Cutting the split ends off his own lovely, long locks, however, was miles easier than correcting this monstrosity that the mad old woman from the potions shop had created upon Hredon’s head. He was doing his very best to bring the rest of it down to match the shortest piece that Attie had left, but Hredon would be lucky if he had half an inch of hair to call his own after all of this. 

Alistair, who had taken up a seat on the chaise lounge by the window looked on with disdain. It was the haircut that he disapproved of (far from it - it was nice to see that ridiculous fringe go) but he had been expecting… more emotion, perhaps, from the commoner. “You seem to be taking this rather well,” he pointed out, not without suspicion. 

Finnian rolled his eyes. “You obviously haven’t spent much time around brothels,” he said dismissively. It seemed that the redhead had abandoned all pretense of addressing Alistair by his proper titles the moment that he had broken into his bedroom in the dead of night - which seemed fair, to be honest. “When you get around as much as I have, drinking blood and keeping secrets isn’t that much of a stretch. Just don’t ask me for any of mine, and we’ll keep getting on fine.” He gave the Emperor a funny look.

“I have suitable donors already,” Alistair said dryly.

“I hope he’s not talking about you,” Finnian paused in his work to poke Hredon in the ribs. “Skinny.”

Hredon swatted his friend’s hand away. “Up yours!”

“No thanks,” Finnian countered, rather smugly. “Already had it three times, tonight. I think I might buy myself a horse, one of these days.”

Hredon scoffed at the ridiculous idea. “You hate riding!” He rolled his eyes as soon as the words came out of his mouth, hating himself for not catching the setup sooner. Finnian cackled at the double entendre. 

“Are you both always this crude?” Alistair complained, wrinkling his nose. Both men looked at him and proceeded to blow raspberries in his direction. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the window. “Never mind.”

“Anyway,” Finnian carried on. “You’ll have to make up some lie about all this hair business. Perhaps you could say it’s some kind of Archaeon mourning custom.”

“It isn’t, though.” Hredon frowned, doing his best to keep his head still.

“So what, then? The great Hredon Philaemon Archaeon, overcome by grief, cut his own hair for the sheer drama of it?” Finnian smirked.

“That’s going to have to be it.” Hredon pressed his lips together.

“It’s fairly fitting,” Alistair chimed in, which made Finnian snort. 

Hredon made a noise of complaint, ducking his head away from the scissors while Finnian chortled. “Careful!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Finnian tittered, brushing his palm over Hredon’s scalp. “It’s almost done, anyway,” he said, making a few more snips. “There. Would you like to see?”

“Go on, then,” Hredon sighed, preparing for the worst. Finnian picked up a gilded hand mirror from his dresser and handed it to Hredon. The dark-haired man took it and regarded himself with an uncertain expression.  
  
“It’s not… awful,” he said, finally.

“It does make you look your age, in a handsome way,” Finnian said earnestly. 

“I like it,” Alistair added quickly, looking over.

“Well, of course _you’d_ like it,” Hredon rolled his eyes. Alistair wanted to change just about everything about him, didn’t he? Still, Finnian’s compliment had already begun to take effect, and he ran his fingers through his new short crop of hair thoughtfully. “It’ll grow on me,” he decided. “And if not… well, it will grow,” he sighed. 

“We ought to head back soon,” Alistair warned Hredon. “There’s a lot less people to spot us while it’s still dark.”

“Alright,” Hredon agreed.

“You best take the window again,” Finnian said. “Madame Rosalie is a discreet woman, but if she got wind that his Imperial Majesty set foot in her brothel for a second time, I don’t know if she’d be able to contain herself.”

“Good idea.” Looking down at the street below, Alistair couldn’t see anyone walking around. He was thankful that his ancestors had instilled a sense of propriety in most of the general population. He popped the latch on the window and opened it up, climbing over the sill and holding out his hand for Hredon to join him.  
  
“Bye, Finnian. Thanks again,” Hredon smiled.

“Do come again. During daylight.” Finnian watched, bemused, as Hredon took Alistair’s hand and climbed out onto the roof, and then onto Alistair’s back, hooking his legs around his husband’s waist. He thought for a moment that Alistair might simply jump down with Hredon on his back, but that would be ridiculous. But then the vampire did exactly that, making Finnian’s heart leap inside his chest. Frantic, he rushed to the window and looked down the street below… to seem the pair of them dusting themselves off as though they had simply strolled onto the pavement.

Hredon looked up and returned Finnian’s look of incredulous outrage with a sheepish grin. He waved silently, not wanting to draw the attention of anyone who might be nearby, then hurried off into the night with Alistair.

Finnian watched them go, swearing under his breath. He shook his head, latched the window again, and went back to bed.


	19. In my Bed

Hredon awoke to a knocking at the door. He had half a mind to ignore it, frowning into his pillow and pulling Alistair’s arm tighter around his chest. That same, treacherous arm jostled him further awake. 

“They might come in,” Alistair whispered. The warning made Hredon’s eyes snap open and he hurried out of bed, smoothing out the front of his white night shirt on his way to the door. He cracked it open just enough to see who it was.

“Good morning, m’lord!” Watsen beamed, holding up a silver serving tray. It was apparent that he’d gotten up bright and early to bring his master breakfast. Hredon could forgive the rude awakening on account of the smell of freshly-cooked bacon wafting from underneath the tray cover.

“Very good, Watsen,” he said, opening the door and promptly taking the tray out of his bootler’s hands. “That will be all.”

“Ah,” Watsen piped up, hovering at the doorway. “Might I come in, m’lord? It’s been some days since I’ve come in to clean.” He stared, somewhat pointedly, at Hredon’s new hairstyle, but was wise enough not to comment on it. He expected there’d be a pile of discarded hair somewhere, ripe for the sweeping. “I imagine the room might be getting into a bit of a state.”

It hadn’t, but that was because Hredon had scarcely even been in the room since Alistair’s arrival, and Alistair himself had been taking great care to leave things looking undisturbed. “I’m quite tidy, I’ll have you know,” Hredon said defensively.

Watsen gave him a funny look. There was grand difference between being fond of tidiness and actually taking the pains to achieve it. Having personally served as Hredon’s bootler for quite some time now, he knew the acting Emperor was often too distracted to clean. “Are you sure, m’lord?”

“Yes,” Hredon said crisply, making his bootler sigh. “Oh, and Watsen,” he caught the man before he turned to leaver.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“I’ll take an evening meal, too, from now on,” Hredon explained. “Being Emperor is more taxing that I anticipated. Some of that venison that’s always going, I think, and whatever vegetables are in season.”

The lanky man seemed somewhat encouraged by the notion of his master eating more regularly. “Very good, m’lord,” he smiled, heading back down to the kitchens to deliver the news.

Hredon stepped back and shut the door with a sigh. Carefully balancing the serving tray in one hand, he brought it over to the table and lifted the cover, picking up one half of the waiting bacon sandwich with a groan. He’d been ravenous, these past few days. He ought to have started taking more meals sooner, but it wasn’t until all this talk of drinking blood that the idea had occurred to him.

“It’s good that you’re eating more,” Alistair piped up, drifting over from where he’d be poised to hide behind the bed. “Perhaps it will improve your temper.”

“Never you mind,” Hredon managed to snap in between mouthfuls as he wolfed down his meal. Having something in his belly did improve his mood. He had scarcely finished the second half when there was another knock on the door. Exchanging an alarmed look with his husband, Hredon wiped his hands and headed back to the door. He opened it and was shocked to see the Tsar of Tarriket standing there with an animated expression. The man had taken the time to underline his eyes with a bright red paint, but otherwise he still wore the brightly coloured robe he had been sleeping (and not sleeping) in last night. 

"Your Imperial Majesty!" Tsarbisi greeted him keenly, and Hredon could not recall when the man had used his proper title prior. "Ah," the man nodded sagely, "I see you have been making an offering." 

Hredon was only able to infer what the man was talking about by the way that he nodded pointedly towards his shortened hair. He supposed an offering was one way to explain away his impromptu haircut. He didn't bother correcting the man, but the next thing he knew, Tsarbisi was pushing his way through the door. 

"I'm not yet dressed!" he protested, and the tall man waved him off. 

"Pah!" Tsarbisi laughed. "You are all indecent to me, with your uncovered heads. Come!" he beckoned Hredon towards Alistair's desk. "I have something to show you."

Hredon hurried after him, trying to spot Alistair as discreetly as possible. Fortunately, he couldn't see any sign of him - the vampire could move quickly, after all. He was most likely hiding in the dressing chamber. Tsarbisi pulled a scroll of parchment from the pockets of his robes, and unfurled it on the surface of the desk. 

"It is good you made your offering, but the gods have already spoken to me," the man said proudly. He pointed to the parchment, where he had made a reasonably well-rendered drawing of a spectre with bright, red eyes - evidently using the very same paint that he now wore on his own face. "One took the form of a being of light, and the other was Death," he tapped the drawing. "I have seen this god before, but he is more fortuitous than he sounds."

Hredon kept his mouth shut, merely nodding. He feared that if he even tried to make light acknowledgement of the things Tsarbisi was saying, he would somehow reveal that these 'gods' were really a vampire and his magical husband. 

"They say that fire will not be our victory," Tsarbisi announced. Here, Hredon's nonplussed expression played in his favour, for the Tarriket King nodded in agreement. "I know: I was surprised too that a fire god would not revel in the burning, but who are we to question the gods?" 

Hredon cleared his throat. "Indeed," he said. 

"So it must be decreed that we do not burn the grain," Tsarbisi said. "Let us simply keep it away from those dogs, without burning the fruits of the land."

Shit! That was no good, either. The whole point of this was that the people of Pradstan wouldn’t starve. "If… we _must_ go down that route," Hredon mused, doing his very best to feign reluctance, "I should like to attempt a spot of bribery. Food is a god in its own right, and I'll wager that the Pradstan commoners will turn on their superiors when they start to go hungry."

Tsarbisi stared at the acting Emperor with his mouth open for a long moment, then let out a hearty guffaw. "Food, a god!" he laughed. "You seafarers are a strange people. Very well, I will have the ravens flown. You should keep making offerings, if you have any hair left to give," he told Hredon. "Perhaps the gods will tell us more things."

"I shouldn't like to lose any more hair," Hredon groused, finally able to coax the intruding man back towards the door. "I'll burn a candle, or something."

"Make sure it is red," Tsarbisi told him knowingly. "The Death one likes that."

"I'll keep that in mind," Hredon said dryly. "Do make haste with the raven." 

"I make haste in all things."

Hredon rolled his eyes as he shut the door behind Tsarbisi, making double sure that the bloody thing was locked tight before he turned back to face the bedroom. Alistair had reappeared, leaning against the doorway to their dressing chamber. He had hidden exactly where Hredon had guessed. "That went well," he said, holding up one of Hredon's newly commissioned suits by its hanger - one in a deep red. "Would you like to wear this today?" 

Hredon gave him a funny look as he came over. "Are you going mad?" he asked. "You're my husband, not my bootler."

"It seemed to be the best one," Alistair said, not without a flash of intent in his red eyes. 

Hredon squinted at him suspiciously. "You just want me to wear it because you like the colour!" he accused. 

“Perhaps,” Alistair drawled, not denying the accusation. “My favourite red outfit of yours was destroyed, unfortunately.” He smiled as he reminisced about Hredon’s wedding lingerie.

Hredon pulled a face as he realised what Alistair was alluding to. “Destroyed by you!” he cried.

“Will you not indulge me?” Alistair asked, holding out the hanger.

Hredon turned up his nose. “I'll consider it,” he said airily. “But first, I want to know more about you.”

“I should think you know enough already,” Alistair replied immediately, looking Hredon up and down.

“Typical!” Hredon huffed. “I know hardly anything at all!”

“I can count the number of people who know about my war injuries on one hand,” Alistair said, his expression quite wary. Hredon faltered as he realised he was referring the flogging scars. No wonder his husband had clammed up at the prospect of sharing secrets comparable to that.

“I do not mean things of such a devastating nature,” he explained, rubbing the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“What, then?” It was Alistair’s turn to pull a face. “Am I to regale you with trifling mundanities? List the books I have read, the foods I used to eat, that sort of thing? How pointless.”

Hredon could not keep from rolling his eyes. “So the only things about you worth knowing are too private and painful to recall, and everything else is just unimportant?” he complained. “You are impossible!”

“Pardon me for being practical,” Alistair snipped. He watched, somewhat perturbed, as his husband glowered and stalked towards his desk. After a moment of consideration, he picked up a silver letter opener with a sharp, pointed tip. This behaviour was made doubly alarming when he shucked his robe off his pale shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asked quickly.

“If you won’t divulge any information about your person, you will at least assist me in understanding your condition,” Hredon answered, his expression fixed with resolve. He brought the point of the dagger to his bicep and twisted it gently into his skin, enough to raise a bead of crimson blood that began to trickle down his arm.

The effect on Alistair was immediate: his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared as he quickly strode across the room. His fingers curled around Hredon’s wrist. “Don’t,” he said, though he sounded rather detached from the word.

Hredon’s eyes narrowed, pulling his wrist away. “I’ll do as I please,” he said gamely, shucking the robe off his shoulders. Clad only in a pair of white briefs, he brought the tip of the letter opener to his arm again, though his eyes watched Alistair intently. The vampire was watching his wound drip intently, eyes growing wider. There was the slightest adjustment of his mouth, almost like the notion to lick his lips, that made Hredon pounce. Seizing his husband’s jaw with one hand, he pulled his mouth open. Alistair hissed, revealing the pointed canines that had presented themselves in the presence of blood.

“I knew it,” Hredon said triumphantly, leaning closer to peer into Alistair’s mouth. “Does it hurt?”

Alistair frowned, reluctantly allowing his husband to inspect his mouth. “No,” he said, as best he could with Hredon probing at his teeth. He drew the line when the man attempted to pierce the pad of his thumb on one of his fangs. “Stop that,” he complained, pushing Hredon’s hand away.

“I expect to know all about being a vampire if I am expected to take the plunge,” Hredon said brazenly, his eyes darting to the shelf where they had placed the ancient crown of Daeraedmore for safekeeping. Alistair followed his line of sight, the corner of his lips pulling down at the accusation.

“I do not _expect--_ ” he protested, but Hredon cut him short.

“Attie said so, and she can see the future, can’t she?” He challenged.

“Even so,” Alistair frowned. It wasn’t _his_ doing, after all; all of this talk of prophecy and fate. He had accepted it in regards to himself, yes, and that was his prerogative, but that was not to say that he was hellbent on forcing Hredon to make the same choices. Yet it was not a game, either! He struggled to find the words for his complaints. “It is not something that is done lightly,” he said finally.

“I agree,” Hredon said silkily. “Which is why I want all the details, even the ‘trivial mundanities’. So, what does it _feel_ like?” he asked keenly, swiping up some of the blood on his arm with his thumb and holding it under Alistair’s nose. 

“It’s difficult to explain,” Alistair said gravely, staring down at the crimson morsel before him. Eventually, he could stand it no longer, and he leaned forward to lick the drop of blood away. Hredon’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the act, wondering just how much the prim man was containing himself.

“Do you want to bite me?” he asked.

Alistair’s lips pressed into a firm line as he regarded his husband warily, sizing up the situation. “Is that an invitation?” he asked after another beat.

“No,” Hredon smirked, his expression growing devious. “In fact, you’re not allowed to.”

“It is not so much a question of allowing,” Alistair said morbidly, his eyes already moving on to the next target: the crimson line on Hredon’s bicep. The bleeding had stopped, but the blood was still fresh. His mouth was already watering after the first taste. He leaned down, reaching for the man’s elbow, but Hredon twisted away. “Do not test me, Hredon!” Alistair snapped, baring his teeth.

Hredon had a wicked gleam in his eye, twirling the dagger in his grip. “I intend to do exactly that.”

***

Alistair fidgeted on the mattress, feeling the cushions sink underneath his knees. “This is nonsense,” he said, albeit uncertainly. He flexed his arms, which were folded behind him, in the black satin sash that bound them together. The cloth had been taken from Alistair’s side of the wardrobe, from some kind of ensemble that was several years old. “I could break free.” He knew he could; it was only fabric, after all. It would take steel to bind him. 

“Yes, well,” Hredon, who did not have any steel on hand, simpered. “That would be very unprincipled, wouldn’t it?” Standing beside the bed, he leaned over the man to make sure the knots were tight. Out of habit more than anything else, really, since Alistair could rip the cloth if he truly had the inclination: bad knots made a bad sailor. Even a proficient seafarer knew that.

“There are no principles relating to these matters,” the brunette groused.

“And there is no handbook for having a husband who lusts for blood,” Hredon countered. “So here we are.”

“I do not _lust_ \-- ah,” Alistair winced as Hredon planted a hand on his groin, the squeeze cutting his protest short.

“Pervert.” The word dripped from Hredon’s lips as he kneaded Alistair’s rapidly growing arousal. This close, the junction of his neck was within easy reach, the pale slope of his shoulder laid out like a platter. Alistair tensed, biting back his curses just as much as he was holding back his base instincts.

“What makes the bite feel so good?” Hredon cooed into his husband’s ear.

Alistair squirmed, spreading his thighs wider. “It is not so much the bite,” he hissed, looking away from the tempting flesh before him. “It is the idea I plant before it. A hypnotic suggestion that alters the way you react to stimulation.”

Hredon tittered at the word ‘stimulation’, his hand curling around the length of Alistair’s manhood and tugging it free from his briefs. “It felt good without hypnosis,” he recalled. On the night that Alistair had returned to him, there hadn’t been time to lull him into a dreamlike state. There had only been a frenzy.

“There is something… else, between us,” Alistair frowned, squeezing his eyes shut as the fingers of Hredon’s other hand raked through the back of his hair. It felt good when they clenched and took a firm hold of the roots at the nape of his neck, as if they might stop him should he wish to dart forward. Should he decide to dart forward. He dearly wished to. In the end, he did not need to: Hredon’s hand left him, hard and untouched between his thighs. No sooner had he opened his eyes with a murmur of complaint did he see that his husband had taken up the dagger again. His breath hitched as he watched Hredon make a cut on his chest, his pupils dilating in anticipation as he felt Hredon’s other hand pull him closer. He lapped at the cut with a grateful moan, relishing the coppery taste on his tongue. The problem was, however, that the cut closed up quickly, healing over with the help of his vampiric spit. Left with nothing but smooth, pale skin, once more, he looked up at Hredon with a furrow in his brow.

“Your saliva does something,” Hredon noted, fascinated. “I’ve never seen a cut heal so quickly.”

“That’s normal,” Alistair said quickly, his red eyes darting between the dagger and Hredon’s chest. His arms flexed in their bindings as he watched Hredon bring the tip of the knife to his chest again. 

Hredon grunted as he attempted to worm the point of the blade deeper into his pectoral muscle. It wasn’t easy; it was only a letter opener, after all. He needed a proper knife.

“Please just let me bite you,” Alistair worried, eyes fixed on the blood welling around the steel. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“No,” Hredon said, clenching his teeth with a determined grimace. “I like the feeling of control.”

Alistair scowled. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Shall I gag you, too?” Hredon suggested, managing a flicker of a smile before the task of working the blade into his chest pulled the corners of his lips down again. 

Alistair gave him the filthiest look. “Do not presume to gag me,” he warned.

“Oh?” Hredon’s mismatched eyes took on a wicked gleam. He gave up on the cut after just half an inch, hot crimson bleeding freely from the open seam. He set the knife on the bedside table and brought his hand to blood that had begun to drip down his chest, swiping up the blood with one finger. “Does that offend you?” he cooed, holding out his hand. 

Despite himself, Alistair sucked the proffered finger clean. "Yes," he groused, already regretting the liberties he had let Hredon take with this situation. The siren call of his husband's blood had distracted him from the loss of his own dignity, it seemed. 

"Perhaps I should find something," Hredon teased, making a show of looking around the immediate area. "Another sash, or perhaps a sock." Tittering, he pulled Alistair's face forward to let him drink. 

Alistair snarled into Hredon's chest, partly in hunger and partly in outrage. Lapping greedily at the cut before it began to close, he moaned and huffed as that intoxicating copper spread over his tongue once more. 

"When I became a bride, I never expected to breastfeed," Hredon quipped, and Alistair saw red in more ways than one. There was an ungodly _rip_ as he tore free of his bindings, grabbing Hredon by the shoulders and slamming him down into the mattress. 

" _In my own bed!"_ Alistair snarled in his husband's face, eyes red and furious. "Do not seek to humiliate me!" With his mouth still smeared with Hredon's blood, he looked quite wild indeed. Not that that did anything to dissuade his tenacious spouse. 

"In _our_ bed," Hredon corrected him gamely, lips spread wide in a wicked smile. "And your cock does not seem to be so humiliated." Even now, he could feel the heat of it pressing up against his thigh. 

Alistair sucked in a breath through his teeth, fuming. Pushing himself up into a kneeling position, he grabbed Hredon's hips roughly and dragged him forward, full of resolve. Yet when the backs of Hredon's thighs connected with his groin, his resolve may as well have hit a brick wall. His intent was not backed up by knowledge. Beneath him, Hredon smirked, folding his arms behind his head. 

"You're just as much of a virgin as me," he said smugly. 

"Can't be that hard," Alistair muttered darkly, sneering down at his husband's irreverent pose. "Whores do it all the time."

"Am I a whore, now?" Hredon drawled, resting his calves on Alistair's shoulders. 

Alistair bared his teeth. "No," he said gravely. "You're mine."

Hredon snickered, ever irreverent in the face of this possessive beast. "Do you even have oil?" he asked plainly. He knew that much, at least: he certainly wasn't fucking without it. 

"Is it oil that I need, is it?" Alistair muttered. That, he did not have. So be it. He would do other things. With a grunt, he readjusted his grip and hauled Hredon up his chest. He tugged the man's briefs aside with his teeth and took him into his mouth. The move caught Hredon by surprise, untangling his arms from behind himself with a yelp and scrambling to support himself with little purchase on the silky bedsheets. 

"Ah!" he cried, feeling himself harden in the warmth of Alistair's mouth. "Alistair!" 

Finally: submission. There was no sweeter sound. Alistair hummed and moaned with his mouth full as he tightened his hold around his husband's waist. Hredon's pale thighs clamped around his ears as he sucked. 

For a novice, Alistair was doing a very good job making Hredon’s eyes roll into the back of his head. What he lacked in technique, he more than made up for in tenacity, especially when he started to use his tongue.

“G-god!” Hredon gasped, beginning to squirm. Alistair’s throat vibrated around him - a chuckle, probably, at the exclamation. ‘ _Am I a god, now?_ ’ he’d probably ask, if he was able. His smugness knew no bounds. Hredon would have to be outraged later, because he had a feeling he was going to cum soon.

Until it stopped.

Hredon, who had screwed his eyes shut, opened them again to the sensation of Alistair’s hot breath between his legs. Livid, he looked up at his husband to see the man grinning wide, panting. “ _Don’t you dare_ ,” he warned him. “If I don’t get to cum, you won’t either.”

“This feels sweeter,” Alistair answered back gamely, his glee positively maniacal. Dipping his head, he ran his tongue up the length of the quivering cock before him, tightening his grip on the man’s midsection when he began to fuss.

“Bastard!” Hredon hissed.

“You’ll have to ask more sweetly than that,” Alistair purred.

Hredon grimaced, going red in the face from the shame of it. Humiliation! It was unbearable! Covering his face with his hands, he shook his head from side to side, as though his mind were trying to wade through the pain of the mere _notion_ of begging. He cried out in complaint, half furious and half aroused, as Alistair began to tease him. His first attempt at speech was little more than a choked whisper; his second attempt was quiet, but intelligible. “P-please!”

“Mmm?” Alistair made a great show of humming, thoroughly enjoying this turn of events. “What was that?”

Hredon’s revenge would be the stuff of legends, if only he could think of something. As it was, he had no choice: his husband wasn’t letting him out of his grip, yet he wasn’t sucking him, either. “Please,” he pleaded, his throat tight. Alistair’s red eyes were watching him with a smouldering yet attentive expression. “Please let me cum,” he elaborated shamefully, wanting to die. Alistair’s grin was mercilessly etched in his memory before he obliged, dipping his head again.

Despite the teasing, Hredon lasted all of two minutes with this treatment. He bit the heel of his hand to keep from screaming too loudly as Alistair swallowed his load. His body was limp and heavy on the bed when Alistair carefully set him back down, moving to lay beside him. “You’ll pay for this,” Hredon muttered, still panting as he shot the vampire a murderous, sideways glance.

“I can assure you that any price would be worth it,” Alistair informed him serenely, still basking in the afterglow of the triumph. He wrapped an arm around the man’s chest and pulled him closer, kissing his cheek. 

“We’ll see about that.”

“I will bathe you, if that appeases you,” Alistair smiled. “After a short rest.”

Only a short one? Hredon felt as though he could sleep for hours. “What’s the rush?” he complained.

“You’ll be needed in the war room,” Alistair reminded him. “Your _Imperial Majesty_.”

Hredon groaned. How he _hated_ being Emperor!


	20. The Great Conspiracy

The meeting in the war room had, inexplicably, dragged on for hours longer than Hredon had anticipated. Admittedly, he had dared hope for a short meeting, given that they had so recently just issued a change of orders and there couldn’t possibly have been time for any hungry Pradstan peasants to come forward with valuable information. However, it seemed that the generals had other ideas - that, or they enjoyed the sounds of their own voices. Hredon suspected it was a mix of both. Truthfully, some of the details of the lengthy discussions were already beginning to blur in his mind as he watched the old men file out the door. 

He sighed and cast his eyes down at the round table, looking at the little figurines arranged upon an approximate map of Pradstan. Windmills represented granaries and (eerily) chess pawns represented deployed soldiers. Looking at it like this, it all seemed like a rather dull board game. Having no battlefield experience of his own, Hredon had to pause to remind himself that these little trinkets translated to real-world landmarks, and real human lives at risk. The moves they planned here could very well result in mass death. He was certain that Alistair’s passion for all this war mongering was deeply rooted in the experience of being there in person, because managing it from afar was awful. 

They were supposed to decide how to take Greater Pradstan, but with no concrete accounts on the city’s layout and little more than distant scouting conducted on the outer wall, it seemed like an impossible task. He certainly wasn’t going to allow troops to be sent in blind. Even if he had more information, he was reluctant to give any orders based on description alone. If he could see the place in person, get amongst it, he was sure he could make better judgements. Of course, the idea of of Hredon, an over-educated Ambassador of Purveyance, anywhere near an active war zone was laughable. Alistair would never allow it.

Speaking of Alistair, he supposed he ought to be getting back to his dear husband. He was probably slowly going insane, being holed up in their bedroom all day long. Perhaps he’d fetch a book from the library so he’d have something to read - not that he had any idea what Alistair preferred to read. No, that was too _mundane_ to discuss, wasn’t it? God. On second thought, the miserable sod could stew in his own boredom.

Hredon got out of his chair and stretched his arms up above his head until he felt that satisfying _crack_ in the bones of his lower spine. He was just about to head for the door when he heard three quiet, rhythmic taps. It was coming from the window behind him. Some kind of bird, perhaps. He took a step towards the door when the tapping came again. With a furrow in his brow, he strode toward the window and pulled back the curtain. His jaw just about hit the floor when he saw Alistair standing on the balcony. Horrified, he wheeled around to see if anyone was still in the room. Thankfully, all the generals had cleared out by now.

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at him through the window pane and pointed to the latch on the inside. Hredon rolled his eyes and let him in. “What are you _doing_ here?!” he hissed, already on his way to the door. He glanced out into the corridor before he pushed the door shut and turned the lock. “What if you were seen?” he rounded on Alistair again.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Alistair said dryly. “Watsen came into the bedroom while you were gone. He seemed hellbent on getting into our wardrobe.”

Hredon paused, sucking air in through his teeth. “That may be partially my fault,” he admitted. “He started out as such a terrible bootler, and I’m such a good influence, he’s become truly devoted to his duties.”

It was Alistair’s turn to roll his eyes. “Please,” he scoffed. “The man just wants to do your laundry.”

“You’ve no concept of bootling,” Hredon dismissed the man’s comment with a wave of his hand. 

“That’s because it doesn’t exist anywhere outside Archaeon!” Alistair bickered. “The rest of us have tailors and maids and shoeshines as separate staff, like normal people!”

“Watsen would have to train for _years_ to become anything _close_ to a tailor,” Hredon cried, aghast. It appeared that Alistair had no concept of tailoring, either - being wealthy enough to afford fine clothes did not necessarily translate to appreciation of the craft. “More importantly, how the _hell_ did you get here? This is the third storey!” It vexed him, truly, that Alistair was turning out to be a far better climber than he was - never mind how many people might have spied him scaling the castle wall. 

“I have my ways,” Alistair sniffed. He had already begun to drift towards the war table, looking over the plans with a scrutinising eye. “These maps need adjusting,” he muttered. He reached for a nearby ink and quill, only to have his hand swatted by his husband.

“Don’t you dare!” Hredon told him. “You’re supposed to be dead! You can’t come in here adjusting maps with knowledge from beyond the grave!”

“There’s a ravine here that turns into a river that runs all the way to the coast,” Alistair said defensively. He ran his finger along the map which was, currently, bare. “It could be useful for a hasty retreat - it certainly was for me.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Hredon snapped. “You’ll have to wait until the new maps come in from the front like the rest of us.”

“I hate waiting for the ravens,” Alistair complained. “They take far too long.”

“Well, unless Attie has some magic way of doing things that we don’t know about, it’s the only way of doing things.”

Alistair sighed. “She doesn’t, that I know of,” he grumbled. He leaned on the edge of the table, leaving the map untouched, as requested. “Things will be better when I can go back and give orders in person,” he said.

Hredon shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean, go back?” he asked. “You nearly died last time!”

“Just like any other soldier,” Alistair scoffed. “Every battle has its risks.”

“Well, you’re not just ‘any other soldier’,” Hredon said tersely. “You’re our Emperor, and my husband!”

“Suddenly fond of me, are you?” Alistair said dryly, looking the man up and down. After everything, Hredon had still elected to continue his fashion of wearing black suits. The red suit was back in the royal wardrobe. “Or do you just hate being Emperor that much?”

Hredon clicked his tongue. “Perhaps a mix of the two,” he said, folding his arms. 

“Well, fortunately for you, I’m very difficult to kill,” Alistair rolled his eyes. “Unlike some people,” he added, under his breath.

Hredon gasped in outrage. “What that supposed to mean?!” Was Alistair calling him _weak_?

“I mean,” Alistair said haughtily, crossing his arms, “I should like it better once you’ve taken the plunge and become a vampire yourself.”

“Oh, is it a casual affair, then?” Hredon bustled, lifting his palms in the air as though he were miming on a stage. “Shall I just pop down to Attie’s for a light stabbing?”

“It is a noble sacrifice for the empire,” Alistair ground out the words. “And you’ve been attacked twice just this week!”

“Attacked by you!” Hredon cried. “And your secret society of old people! You can’t attack me and then claim it’s a good reason for vampirism. It’s absurd!”

“It’s precisely the point,” Alistair countered with a pout. “You’re too…” he faltered for words, his fingers dancing in the air, “breakable.” 

Hredon looked disgusted. “This is about fucking,” he accused.

Alistair’s eyes widened and his shoulders tensed. “Must you always be so cru--” He was unable to finish the sentence, as his sneering husband had clapped a hand over his mouth. He pulled back, growling in protest, only to have the hand clamp tighter. He then realised that Hredon was looking not at him, but at the door.

There was a key turning in the lock!

Panicking, both men backed up towards the window as though that might be their salvation, but the door was already open. The servant known as Snitch (whose real name was Erikson, though it was seldom used, much to his chagrin) walked in and stared at the pair of them, gog-eyed. “What--” he could barely get the word out before the men sprang into action.

“Get him,” was all Hredon said, and Alistair complied. He closed the distance between them in a flash, and suddenly Snitch was up against the wall adjacent, with the door pushed shut and locked again.

“Hello, Snitch,” Hredon greeted him rather tensely, walking forward with his hands behind his back. The servant couldn’t answer presently, owing to his Emperor’s hand over his mouth to keep him from screaming. “I suppose you’re very confused right now.”

Erikson managed a weak nod in Alistair’s grip, nervously glancing between Hredon and the man who was rumoured to be dead. It might not have been so bad, were it not for the Emperor’s blood-red eyes. He looked like something out of a children’s story - the kind that made little boys and girls behave. Hredon carried on speaking to him as though he were a child.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” the man cooed in a way that was not entirely soothing. “Alistair is a good king, isn’t he?”

Erikson nodded uncertainly.

“Ugh, you are awful at this,” Alistair snapped. “The poor boy is terrified. Erikson!” he barked, taking his hand away from the young man’s mouth so he could speak. “As your Emperor, I order you to tell no one of this incident!”

“Y-yes, m’lord,” the man stammered.

“Well that’s not going to convince him, is it?” Hredon bickered. “Your orders won’t mean a damn once he starts telling stories in the kitchens.”

“I don’t employ gossiping simpletons,” Alistair groused. “The staff are all of the third order, or better. They do as they’re told.”

“ _Snitch_?” Hredon scoffed. “Please! He’s probably dying to tell someone right this minute. God knows he could barely keep his mouth shut when I first got here.”

“Reporting to me is _not_ the same as gossiping. You’ve got to let go of this ridiculous grudge.”

“Uh… begging your pardon, m’luds,” Snitch piped up, gingerly easing Alistair’s forearm off his collarbone and stepping away from the wall. “But why are you so worried about his Imperial Majesty’s return? Is it not a happy thing?”

“Maybe,” Hredon said snidely. Alistair ignored him.

“It’s a matter of national security,” he told Erikson patiently. “There are men in Pradstan who do believe I am dead; to have them hear otherwise would yield the upper hand.”

“I can’t think of a soul in Daeraedmore who’d cross you, your Imperial Majesty,” Snitch said honestly, his brown eyes wide. “You’re the best King I ever heard of. Emperor, too.”

Hredon pulled a face towards the heavens at Snitch’s incredible brown-nosing. Alistair, who was a little less biased towards Erikson’s character, was touch by the sincerity. “Thank you,” he said warmly, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I do what I can. But I fear that the news of my death, while useful in Pradstan, might make morale plummet here at home.”

“Well, if that’s the case, why not tell people at home that you’re alive?” Erikson suggested.

Alistair smiled patiently. Erikson was young, and well-principled, but he didn’t understand the intricacies of warfare. “I’m afraid that would be rather counter-intuitive.”

“Oh, no, m’lud,” Erikson explained. “You should still continue to spread word of your death in Pradstan.”

A furrow formed in Alistair’s brow as he tried to understand the reasoning behind the servant’s words. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “People will see me here in Daeraedmore and know that it cannot be true. And while Pradstan forces may not leave Pradstan, we cannot rule out the possibility of spies or mercenaries.”

“Yes, m’lud,” Erikson agreed. “Which is why you should also spread rumours that the man who fell in Pradstan was an impostor, and that the Emperor in Daeraedmore is an impostor, too.”

Perhaps Alistair hadn’t given Erikson enough credit. Yet it was difficult to believe that such a thing would word. “How many different lies am I to spread?” he asked. “It sounds rather ridiculous.”

“As many as possible, m’lud,” Erikson insisted. “The point is to create so many possibilities that the truth cannot be known. Then by the time you’ve achieved your goals, people are too busy celebrating to concern themselves with the details.”

Hredon gasped as his memory clicked. “A Skerringmore conspiracy!” he realised, eyes wide.

“Exactly,” said Erikson.

“You sneak!” Hredon cried, pointing his finger at the servant. “Of course you’ve been reading Skerringmore!”

“I might have,” the man admitted, rubbing his nose.

“What on earth is Skerringmore?” Alistair pulled a face.

“It’s an old book on politics, m’lud,” Snitch explained. “From about two hundred years ago. The Skerringmore conspiracies were so frequent that he was eventually lynched by the people.”

“And you want to copy him?!” Alistair asked incredulously. “I’m trying to save people, not betray them enough to make them lynch me!”

“Well, we’re only going to do one,” Hredon reasoned, pinching his thumb and forefinger in the air. “Just one, little conspiracy.”

“I think the real Skerringmore did closer to forty-three, depending on whose accounts you believe,” Snitch offered.

Forty-three! Alistair’s jaw dropped. “What kind of king was he?!” he demanded.

“He wasn’t one; he was a prime minister.”

“A _prime minister_?” Alistair’s expression soured even further. As a member of a centuries-old royal lineage, he found the idea of a government repugnant. He also couldn’t think of any nation on the continent which presently had such a democracy. “Where was this man from?”

“Itallyon,” Hredon chimed in. “The Agricultural Faction took power just a few years after, and they’ve been going ever since.”

Alistair wrinkled his nose. “Another oligarchy, then,” he grumbled, reluctant to mimic the history of such a nation.

“Yes, but a great deal more ethical than Pradstan’s, I’d expect,” Hredon said brightly. In fact, the IAF kept the interest of the people and their industry very much at the forefront of the country’s operations. He’d been mimicking many of Itallyon’s regulations at his piggery, though now was probably not the most prudent time to mention that fact. “Surely you’ve been at least once?” he asked, assuming the man was well-travelled.

“No, I haven’t.”

No wonder the man had been such a stick in the mud about Hredon’s bacon. He’d never even enjoyed the produce that Itallyon had to offer! And now… well. Itallyon was famous for many wares, but blood wasn’t one of them. Alistair’s diet had become very limited.

“Begging the eighth, m’luds,” Erikson cut in, looking between the pair of them, “But if we’re planning to do this, then time is of the essence.”

“Hang on,” Alistair frowned. “I haven’t agreed to do this yet. My reputation is at stake.”

“Well, what other options are there?” Hredon huffed. “You’re not a good enough actor to come dramatically riding in, half dead on the back of a horse. And you can’t stay hidden forever!”

Alistair grimaced. He hated when Hredon was right. Truthfully, the conspiracy seemed to be the best plan they had - however unsavoury it seemed. “How would we even go about it?” he asked stoutly. “Am I simply to stroll into the war room and start making plans with the generals again?”

“Well,” the servant said, “in a way; yes. For starters, your Imperial Majesty should begin showing his face about the palace as though nothing ever happened. And when questions are asked, thank them for their part in concealing your whereabouts from Pradstan.” 

“I knew your deviousness knew no bounds,” Hredon muttered.

Erikson looked Hredon’s way, raising his eyebrows at the Emperor Consort’s black suit. “And his Imperial Highness will need to cease wearing mourning garb immediately,” he added. “You only played the part of a widower to help bolster the lie for Pradstan.”

“Oh, goody,” Alistair glanced at Hredon with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Perhaps you can wear a spot of red.”

Two could play at that game. “Actually,” Hredon shot back with equal venom, reaching out to grip his husband’s elbow. “I think I’ll wear white.”


	21. Portrait

“How much longer is it?”

“Shut up,” Hredon struggled to answer without moving his lips much. The two men had been out in the courtyard’s rose gazebo all afternoon. Given his lesser title of Emperor Consort, Hredon had the advantage of being seated in a chair (though he was beginning to regret the decision to cross his legs). Alistair, on the other hand, was required to stand. It wasn’t the numbness in the soles of his feet that was quite the issue; it was the sheer boredom of it all. He’d only just gotten a taste of roaming freely around his own castle once more, and now he was forced to stand still for hours on end while a portrait artist captured their likeness in an intricate oil painting.

It would be a masterpiece, certainly. With the roses in full bloom and a few dozen tealight candles set around them, the gazebo made a lovely scene. The red flowers contrasted so vividly against their monochromatic wedding suits, yet harmonised with the tiny detail of their blood emerald rings. Green and gold would tie the rest of it together: having no other crown of his own, Hredon had elected to wear the ancient relic he had liberated from Attie and the old druid. It had fit his head perfectly, with no adjustments needed. Alistair hadn’t the heart to point out that it was because the thing was a magical artifact. It seemed better to let his husband warm up to it in his own way.

The artist, a thin-nosed woman with a short crop of unruly, auburn hair, had an exemplary port folio with an exacting attitude to match. Barely daring to move his head, Alistair slid his eyes in her direction. Surely she had to be done soon. He couldn’t see the canvas when it was turned away from him. Her green eyes met his over the top of the canvas, and seemed to flash with warning. Alistair swallowed and went back to staring at the X that had been marked on a gazebo post in front of him. Trust Hredon to hire someone so ruthless. He must have been plotting this from the start: perhaps  since the day of their engagement. An impossibly long and twisted plot for revenge.

Why had he commissioned such an elaborate wedding suit? He’d complain about Hredon’s, but even Hredon’s suit was simpler. If Alistair had known a portrait would be involved, he would have gotten married in a monk’s habit. Or a druid’s robe. Yes, that was it: a proper pagan ceremony. All very traditional and simple, and quick to capture on canvas.

A small gaggle of ministers crossed the hallway in front of the gazebo. Alistair tensed, watching them pass by. The inevitable stares and hushed whispers made him cringe. Their misinformation campaign was well underway, with all manner of tales flying left and right around the palace, but Alistair worried that there would be those who were simply too clever to fall for all of this lark. Even that bootler of Hredon’s had kicked up a fuss.

“ _ What?! _ ” The young man had thrown a shoe at his employer. (Who threw a shoe? Honestly.)

“ _ God _ , Watsen, you can’t be so offended that you didn’t know,” Hredon had huffed, folding his arms. “You’re only level three or whatever it is.” In retrospect, it was disturbing how easily his husband had been able to throw himself into this ridiculous conspiracy. The acting lessons that he had allegedly taken in his youth must have been very thorough. That, or he simply had a predisposition to deviousness.

“I saw you,” Watsen cried, outraged. He was also, presently, a manservant of the fourth order, not the third, but that was beside the point. He pointed at the floor, presumably in the general direction of the kitchens, as Hredon had never laid on the floor of his wardrobe. “You sat there on the counter and told me how he was such a bastard -- begging the eighth,” the servant quickly interjected with a tense glance at Alistair, who was so tense himself that he merely nodded, “for leaving you!”

“Well, of course I did!” Hredon exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air. “That’s how conspiracies work, Watsen! You have to cause a big scene to make people believe one thing, and then your enemies believe another!”

“I  _ saw  _ him ride out with the army,” Watsen insisted, still struggling with the concept. “I helped dish out the breakfast rations.”

“None of the generals kicked up such a fuss,” Hredon deflected in a sanctimonious tone.

“Arse to the generals,” Watsen muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets with a scowl. At that, Alistair did take offense.

“Watsen!” he cried, frowning. “Those men protect our nation!”

The young man flinched, looking more like a disgruntled teenager than a servant disrespecting his Emperor’s military. “Begging your pardon, your Imperial Majesty,” he mumbled.

“I think Watsen just needs some time to calm down,” Hredon simpered, stooping to collect the shoe that had been thrown. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and visit Madame Rosalie’s or something? Right after you shine this shoe,” he added, handing it back to the man. 

Watsen gave him a pained look. “I don’t go to brothels.”

“Perhaps you should start.”

***

“That will be enough for today,” the artist announced.

The swell of hope in Alistair’s chest was quickly dashed by the final word of the sentence. “For today?” he asked, turning to the woman with a great sense of foreboding.

“Yes.”

Excited, Hredon all but bounded out of his chair and rushed towards the canvas. “Let me see!”

“Ah!” the woman stopped him, bodily coming between him and the canvas and holding up a paint-smeared palm. “Stay back! Those suits have to remain absolutely pristine for the next sitting. Please return to your wardrobe immediately.”

Hredon groaned, and both men were quite deflated as they strolled back to their bedroom. 

“ _ Candles snuffed but not an  _ inch  _ out of place _ ,” they heard the painter bark to her assistant behind them. “ _ I want this whole gazebo roped off _ .”

“This is your fault,” Alistair couldn’t help but snip. “We could have had a painting done in half the size, in half the time!”

“Not  _ my  _ fucking wedding painting,” Hredon said gruffly, narrowing his eyes. Were they not dressed in their finest, he would have grabbed the man by his cravat. “I didn’t go through all of that to  _ not  _ have my likeness immortalised in the grandest painting this nation has ever seen.”

“Your ‘likeness’ is going to be immortalised anyway!” Alistair rolled his eyes. His own likeness was already immortalised upon his own person.

“Hmph,” Hredon smirked. “I don’t think so. I expect I might wait a decade or so, and out-age you. Father’s hair was terrible handsome when salt-and-pepper greys came in at his temples.” 

Alistair’s jaw dropped. “ _ That’s _ your concern?” he cried. “How could you be so vain?!”

“You’re just jealous that you jumped the gun,” Hredon dismissed him. “ _ I’m _ going to do it properly.”

Alistair groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“No, I’m quite sure you will suffer me,” Hredon answered. 

Alistair narrowed his eyes, but he was beginning to learn when it was better to leave Hredon’s ridiculous statements unchallenged. Nevertheless, he did suffer the man: not only did they spend all day together for the portrait sitting, but Hredon was also uncharacteristically keen about attending that afternoon’s war meeting. He even dragged Alistair down to the dining room to witness his evening meal (venison, and it was about time that the man got a proper source of iron in his diet). Alistair was beginning to suspect foul play.

His suspicions were confirmed when he awoke the next morning in his bed, finding his left wrist bound to Hredon’s with a silk sash.

“What on earth?!” He pulled his arm away in alarm, which of course yanked Hredon forward and jerked the man awake. He could have sworn his husband leapt out of of his slumber with an intent gleam in his mismatched eyes. “What have you done?!”

“Precautions,” Hredon answered, sounding nowhere near as sleepy as he ought to. He’d gone to bed full of anticipation, then. 

Alistair scowled and tried to find the loose end to the binding to untie his arm. It was one of those bastardous sailor’s knots that the man would have learned in Archaeon. “Is this one of mine?” he asked, recognising the fabric of the sash.

“Of course,” Hredon answered snootily. “I’m hardly going to use one of mine.”

Alistair groaned. “Just untie me!” he cried, giving up on the knot. 

“I won’t,” the man huffed, folding his free arm across his chest and looking away stubbornly. “You’re just going to have to put up with it.”

It was even more ridiculous than the time the man had sat in his lap in a war meeting. More ridiculous than the time he had broken in his bedroom to steal a non-existent diary. Alistair was rendered speechless for a moment, trying to process the sheer frustration of it all. Even more pressing was the matter of his schedule for the day. He wrung his hands in the air, inadvertently pulling Hredon’s arm along with the gesture. “I’m… expecting Hilda,” he said finally, jaw clenched with the sheer awkwardness of it all.   
  
“She’s your servant,” Hredon pointed out. “You see her every day.”

“I am expecting her to take more blood,” Alistair clarified in a rush, avoiding eye contact. “It’s a private affair.”

“You think everything is a private affair,” Hredon said bluntly. “And besides, if you’re so keen on me becoming a vampire, how else am I supposed to learn about bloodletting?”

Alistair found he couldn’t argue with that.

“If you let me see it, I’ll untie you,” Hredon wheedled.

Alistair pressed his lips together in a tight line and thrust is left arm in Hredon’s direction. It only occurred to him a few moments later to watch the man loosen the knot, but by the time he’d looks that way, the sash was already unraveling like a soothed python. He clicked his tongue and pulled his arm back to himself. “You’re insufferable,” he grumbled, then found himself flooded with an awful feeling of deja vu. 

“Get used to it.”

***

“You can see the vein in the crook of the elbow,” Alistair pointed, feeling very awkward giving a lecture on this topic.

Later in the morning, untied and appropriately dressed (well, except for Hilda, who had unbuttoned and shucked half her blouse to free one of her arms, although an older woman’s undergarments were so modest that it wasn’t at all uncomfortable for anyone) they gathered around Alistair’s desk. Hilda was seated in the chair with her arm bent on the armrest. Both she and Hredon were looking at the scalpel in Alistair’s hand. Hredon met the woman’s eyes.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Not very much, dear,” Hilda said with a brave smile. “I find the healing of a cut is much more bothersome than getting the cut itself, and that’s not an issue with his Imperial Majesty’s… ah…”

“Saliva,” Alistair finished, feeling unsavoury. He tried his best to stick to clinical language. “An application to a wound can expedite its healing to a matter of minutes. Although all the wounds have been relatively minor… I’m sure it has its limits.”

Hredon glanced back at the scalpel, and Hilda’s elbow. “Can I do it?” he asked.

“No,” Alistair refused him quickly. He cleared his throat when he noticed the look of surprise on the others’ faces. “I feel a certain sense of responsibility towards Hilda,” he explained. “I’d prefer if I was exclusively in charge of her care.”

“Well, what about when I’m a vampire, too?” Hredon asked. “Where am I supposed to get blood?”

Alistair raised his eyebrows, pausing in his work. He hadn’t thought that Hredon intended to get his blood from the same source. “Certainly not,” he said. “It’s serious enough that Hilda donates for one vampire. Even then, I only draw blood on days that she is not--” he stopped himself, acutely conscious of Hilda’s privacy as well as his own.

“Menstruating?” Hredon surmised. “I did take biology classes too, you know - at least in regard to the basic life cycle of our species.”

“That is what it’s called, yes,” Hilda said patiently. Truth be told, she was doing her best not to giggle at the display between the two newlyweds.

“You will have to find another donor,” Alistair said stoutly, skirting around the subject. “I had thought that that… Finnian friend of yours, was rather robust…”

It was Hredon’s turn to be affronted. “Certainly not!” he cried. “He’s already told me as much. Don’t you remember?”

“I had thought that comment was more directed at me,” Alistair mused. He was growing impatient, at least in terms of the ache in his tongue yearning for the taste of fresh iron, so he took the scalpel and carefully made an incision in the junction of Hilda’s elbow. She flinched, just barely, but turned he arm to allow the blood to drip into a small beaker in the same way that they had done dozens of times before.

“I can’t ask Finnian for this,” Hredon said, watching the bright red liquid drip into the glass. “He’s… he’s got a very demanding profession. Not to dismiss the labours of a servant,” he added, considering Hilda’s presence.

“I’ve been on light duties for years now,” Hilda tittered. “I’m quite well looked after.”

“I don’t think Finnian’s clients would be so forgiving.” Hredon frowned.

“Well, what about your servants?” Alistair suggested. 

“ _ Watsen _ ?” Hredon pulled a face. “He’s a twig! He’ll get the anaemia.”

“Erikson is a little more substantial.”

Hredon stuck out his tongue in distaste. Not so much at the notion of discussing men like blood factories, just at the notion of having to rely on Snitch for such a vital thing.

“Well, you’re going to have to figure something out,” Alistair sighed, carefully watching the level of blood in the beaker. When it was enough, he set it aside and had Hilda raise her arm so he could apply spit with his thumb to make the wound heal.

“I can’t believe you’re so keen for me to take the plunge, yet you haven’t considered any of the ramifications,” Hredon complained. 

“You said just yesterday that it would be years and years before you turned,” Alistair wrinkled his nose. He reached for a damp washcloth to clean Hilda’s elbow. Hredon craned his neck, hoping he might see the skin stitch itself back together, but by the time Alistair had wiped the skin clean, it was as if there had never been a cut at all.

“It might not have been,” Hredon pointed out. He withheld any more details, conscious of the woman in the room whom, he presumed, did not know about Daeraedmore’s little cult of benevolent-yet-alarming druids. Hilda didn’t seem to phased, although that might have been a well-practiced servant’s facade. She was busy buttoning up her blouse again.

“Well, it wasn’t.” Alistair breathed in sharply through his nostrils and lifted the beaker to his lips. When he drank, a little more colour seemed to return to his pallid cheeks - not that he ever had much colour, usually. “Thank you, Hilda,” he murmured, setting down the beaker.

“You’re welcome, m’lord,” Hilda answered, getting to her feet. “I’ll come back later today to help you dress for the next portrait sitting.”

“Very well,” Alistair said. “In the meantime, I need to meet with General Gallagher. Could you alert his office for me?”

“I’m coming too,” Hredon butted in.

Alistair’s nostrils flared. “This again!” he snapped. “Must you be joined at my hip?”

“Yes.”

“This is absurd! You hate war talk.”

Hilda finally couldn’t contain her giggle. She brought her hand to her lips and bowed in apology when both men stared at her. “Begging your pardon, m’lords,” she said. “You remind me of my youngest,” she nodded towards Hredon. “When I started working at the palace. He used to hate to see me go anywhere without him.”

Alistair blinked and exchanged a glance with Hredon, who only scowled and looked away. 

“Anyway, I need to be getting down to the treasury,” Hilda excused herself. “I’ll see to it that the royal crowns are polished before the portrait sitting. His Imperial Highness’ medallion, too.”

“Very good, Hilda,” Alistair murmured, suddenly sounding a little distant. “Thank you.” He watched her leave before he turned his attention to Hredon. “Well,” he said sternly. “Spit it out.”

“Spit  _ what  _ out?” Hredon spat, defensive.

“You’re clearly keen to stick to me like glue,” Alistair said. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Hredon answered back with a foul expression, all but throwing himself down into Hilda’s chair. Perhaps he really was like a son, Alistair thought dryly. One that was perpetually teenaged. 

“I think that you think I’m going to abandon you,” he presented the idea with what he hoped was a mature temper. Naturally, Hredon did not rise to meet his level.

“I wonder what could have brought that on?” the brunet drawled sarcastically. “Perhaps it was all the abandonment!”

“You don’t need to be this paranoid,” Alistair told him. “I’m not going to disappear into thin air.”

“Just admit that you can’t wait to go galloping back to Pradstan without me!” Hredon snapped. He’d been stewing over this for days. “You’ve always cared more about your wars than me.”

“You know how important it is to liberate Pradstan!”

“Is it really about liberation, or is it about revenge?” Hredon asked with a furrow in his brow. “I know what they did to you.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Alistair said darkly.

“Well, that’s because you won’t talk about it!” Hredon cried.

“It’s too painful to speak of, Hredon!” Alistair roared.

Hredon stopped, feeling as though he was shrinking into the chair he sat in. He’d seen Alistair in all flavours of angry, but angry and hurt was something else entirely. It was unnerving; horrible to witness. And something about that made him furious, too, that someone else had dared done something to make things this way. Someone, or something, unknown and terrible, in that stupid, walled-off city in the North. “I’m supposed to be your husband,” he said with clenched teeth.

Alistair sighed, slumping over the chair. From this angle, he could see Hredon’s fingers laced over the back of his own neck. He was still wearing his wedding ring. “You are,” he said softly, staring a moment longer before dropping down to a crouch. He reached out to lift Hredon’s chin. “It’s not a simple matter, Hredon,” he said, hoping the words would constitute as an apology.

“I wish it was.” Hredon’s expression was unreadable. Hurt, most likely.

“I do, too,” Alistair sighed again. “In the meantime, I suppose the best I can do is promise I won’t depart again without your full, explicit knowledge.”

Hredon finally met his gaze, perhaps studying his face for sincerity. “You swear?” he asked. He really was so childish, at times.

“I swear,” Alistair said. His mind raced for even more ways to mend the situation. “Perhaps,” he said. “We might be able to share some conversation at the next portrait sitting. It seemed that most of our faces were painted in the first session; we should be able to speak as long as our bodies stay still.”

Hredon managed a small, close-lipped smile. “I’d like that,” he said. His smiled widened as he broke out in a titter. “It’s been terribly boring in silence.”

Alistair let out a splutter of laughter himself. “God, yes. It’s been excruciating. Where did you find a woman who was even more exacting than yourself?”

“I know! But her work is  _ gorgeous _ !” Hredon agonised, clapping a hand over one of his eyes. “I wanted the very best.”

“You always do.”

Hredon stared back at him for a moment, lowering his hand from his face. When he did, Alistair leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. When he did, the younger man startled for a moment, then closed his eyes. 


End file.
